


King and Lionheart

by underthenightstars



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-08-31 04:29:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 37,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8564113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/underthenightstars/pseuds/underthenightstars
Summary: Set post 6x10. Brienne runs into old acquaintances in the Riverlands, and Jaime must deal with the aftermath of Cersei's destruction.





	1. PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hello everyone! This is my first post on AO3, as well as my first Game of Thrones/ASOIAF fic. I don't necessarily have the whole story mapped out yet, but if I decide to continue it, future chapters will be inspired by reddit user maureencreates' explanation of rumoured season 7 events. Any comments/criticisms are greatly appreciated! Oh, and the title is an Of Monsters and Men song (I just thought it fit well with GoT). Thanks so much for reading! :)

PROLOGUE

Deep in the heart of the Riverlands, a girl travelled alone. She moved quietly, passing through old wood and blackened farms, ivy-covered ruins and abandoned mills, a ghost enveloped in a brown roughspun cloak. Everything around her was coated in a fresh layer of snow, white powder dusting the bare branches of trees and the thatched roofs of homes. Here and there human skeletons could be glimpsed poking out from the mud, their skulls cracked or rib cages splayed open in silent prayer to the one true god.

Black, dried blood sat caked under her fingernails, the only evidence left of the deed she had committed the night before. Already Frey bannermen would be spreading out from the Twins in search of the culprit, she was certain, yet the girl was unafraid. Who would think a sixteen-year-old capable of murdering Lord Walder Frey and his two most prominent sons?

Besides, if she did stumble upon a suspicious soldier, the girl could simply change faces once again. It had been easy enough to masquerade as a serving wench the previous evening, donning the mask of a pretty lowborn maid and switching into a dress stolen along the way. No one had questioned her authenticity, allowing her to slip into the castle unobstructed. Invisible. Floating through the dining hall like a spirit.

Considerably more difficult had been the task of carving Black Walder and Lothar, but she had managed. Old Walder Frey hadn't suspected foul play in the slightest - not until she gestured to the pie and he lifted the crust to reveal a finger. The rest had been quick, a blur, grabbing the elderly man by the hair and pulling his head back, bringing the knife to his throat, cutting it open in a dark red smile. Watching the life bleed out from his pale, wrinkly neck until his body went slack.

Now the girl sat atop a chestnut gelding taken from a nearby village, heading south along the Green Fork. She avoided the kingsroad, with its plethora of bandits and rapists and soldiers, instead using the river as her guide. Its water swirled and churned, a blue, lazy serpent winding through valleys and forests. She had heard rumours that her mother’s corpse had been thrown into this branch, treated as nothing more than a sack of rotten potatoes after her entire family was murdered before her eyes. The thought of Lady Catelyn’s body disintegrating at the bottom of the waterway hardened the girl’s resolve.

The Freys and the Lannisters would pay.

Eventually her horse tired, and the girl stopped to let it feed on the grass dying beneath the frost. As it ate, she dismounted and removed Needle from its sheath around her waist, the thin sword a familiar weight in her hand. Closing her eyes, she began to practice in the darkness, swinging at non-existent enemies. _Swish, swish, swish_ went the blade, slicing through the air in an elegant dance. She could see them in her mind’s eye, falling one by one, powerless to stop her.

_Ser Gregor, Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, Ser Ilyn, Queen Cersei._

_Valar morghulis._

“Arya Stark.”

The girl’s eyelids flew open, causing light to flood her vision. For a moment she was disoriented, until the world began to focus and she could see the figures in front of her. Needle was a sharp threat between them.

“Beric Dondarrion,” replied Arya.

The middle-aged man wore an eyepatch over his left socket and rope marks around his neck, visual reminders that he had been killed over half a dozen times and continued to be brought back to life. His savior, a drunken priest called Thoros of Myr, stood next to him.

“Thought we'd never meet again,” said Thoros, grey bearded and thinner than she remembered. “Last time we saw you, you were a skinny little thing. This one tells us he took you captive, but a woman attacked him and you ran away.”

Only then did Arya notice Sandor Clegane, standing a distance behind the other two men, his scarred face unreadable.

“You were supposed to die,” said Arya, eyes locked on his.

“Didn't really feel like it,” came the Hound’s gruff response.

After a moment of prolonged silence, Thoros of Myr cleared his throat. “While this is truly a touching reunion, I'm afraid I must interrupt. What exactly are you doing in the Riverlands alone, Lady Stark?”

“I’m not Lady Stark. That was my mother,” snapped Arya. “I'm here to avenge my family.”

“Ah, very well. And how's that going for you?”

“I killed two of Walder Frey’s sons and served them to him for supper before slashing his neck from ear to ear.”

Thoros seemed right to laugh at her words, but Beric’s expression remained serious, his good eye searching hers.

“We heard rumours of his demise, but we weren't sure if they were telling the truth of it.” Beric nodded in her direction. “Apparently so.”

“You can't possibly believe this girl murdered Walder Frey,” scoffed the Hound.

“I do. I can see it in her face,” said Beric. “Where are you going now, my lady?”

Arya stared at him for a moment, unsure, her mind weighing every possible option. She could jump on her horse and flee now, risking eventual capture, or she could stab one of them through the belly and start a fight. However, she wasn't sure she could win, not with so many armed men surrounding her. Mayhaps she could make it to the next town and change faces, and no one would know…

“I'm going to King’s Landing to kill Cersei Lannister,” Arya heard herself say. She hadn't intended to tell them her objective, as she had no idea who they may have sworn allegiance to after so many years, yet there it was, hanging in the air between them.

After a brief pause, Beric began to chuckle through the quiet. “Forgive me for laughing, little wolf, but that is highly unlikely to work out in your favor. Even if you made it past the guards, Cersei’s birds would find you. She’d never let you leave the capital alive.”

Arya grinned inwardly, because Arya would not be the one to enter the capital in the first place. She would choose a peasant’s face and go through the Fishmarket to the River Gate, then travel the city as a beggar until she reached the Red Keep. She hadn't completely worked out what she would do from there, but figured she had enough time between the Twins and King’s Landing to devise the rest of the plan.

“I'll take my chances,” said Arya, keeping Needle pointed at Beric. Now it was her turn to appraise each man, her gaze sweeping over the lot of them, this Brotherhood Without Banners whose numbers had shrunk greatly since her time as their prisoner long ago, when she was only a child. Before Thoros and Beric sold her friend Gendry to the Red Woman, and Arya escaped, running right into the arms of the Hound. “What are you doing up here?”

Thoros of Myr smiled down at her. “Why, we're traveling north to fight the cold. It seems all those stories about White Walkers and wights weren't just fairytales after all.”

“How do you know?”

“The Lord of Light spoke to me in His flames,” said the red priest.

“There is only one god, and His name is Death.”

“Death is coming for us all, little wolf,” interjected Beric, “and it rides in on winds from beyond the Wall. We must work together now, enemies and friends alike, if we are to survive the Winter.”

“I don't care. The Lannisters cut off my father's head, and shot my brother full of arrows, and slit my mother's throat. They helped the Freys take Riverrun and kill my uncle.” Arya lowered her sword unconsciously. “It's not survival I want. It's revenge.”

She saw something pass over the Hound’s face then, something resembling pity, and she raised Needle again. “I don't need your sympathy,” she stated. “I need you to die.”

“And why would you need that?” asked Thoros.

“You owe me. You gave Gendry to that witch.” She looked to Beric, her anger rising. “He was innocent, and you sent him off to die for a bag of gold!”

“People have been killed for less,” said Thoros. “That's the cost of war, unfortunately.”

“It didn't cost you anything. He meant nothing to you. He was my friend.” The fingers of her right hand played with the hilt of the dagger at her hip. “There’s nothing to stop me from gutting each of you in your sleep.”

“I’d listen to the girl,” said the Hound, gesturing to her with his axe. “I know what losing a friend can do to a person, and it's not pretty. At least for their foes.”

At his words, Arya realized that the look on Clegane’s face had not been sympathy, but empathy. He understood the festering, hot, bitter longing that accompanied loss, as well as the burning desire for vengeance. She felt the corners of her lips turn up ever so slightly...

...and then the hairs on the back of her neck began to rise, the sensation prickling across her skin in waves. Something was in the air, charged as a crack of lightning, pushing and pulling her body all at once.

It appeared that the Brotherhood had sensed it too. They looked in all directions, weapons raised, waiting with bated breath.

For a moment nothing happened, and then all at once, like ghosts awakening from slumber, a hundred wolves emerged from the mist surrounding them. Their leader was a great she-wolf, large as a pony, with dappled grey-brown fur and glowing amber eyes.

It was a dream come to life. Arya recalled experiencing a similar scene in her sleep, and half-forgotten memories began to flash in her mind; running through the forest under a full moon, the glisten of snarling fangs, the heat of a fresh kill. Yet in those visions, she was the wolf at the head of the pack, no longer human. Transformed.

Nymeria moved closer to her, no hint of trepidation in her gait despite the numerous crossbows pointed at her.

_She fears no man._

Arya stood still, heart beating wildly in her chest. She knew she shouldn't be afraid, but her body betrayed her, causing a sheen of cold sweat to break out on her hands. This animal was nothing like the young direwolf she had abandoned in the woods so many years ago, when Cersei had promised to have her head.

Nymeria was less than a yard away now, and Arya could feel the warmth of her breath against her cheeks. She forced herself to swallow her anxiety and extended a trembling hand. The she-wolf gave a slight growl, then sniffed her fingertips, the touch light as butterfly wings. In that instant, the world seemed to warp, shifting under Arya’s feet until she fell to her knees. Distantly, she heard the gasps of the men around her, but they were faint, far away, nothing but wind. All she could sense was the taste of deer on her tongue, the dirt clumped between the pads of her paws, the sounds of the forest that seemed crisper than ever.

When she opened her eyes once more, everything was a varying shade of grey, and she could see her own body slumped on the ground.

“She's a warg!” shouted a red-haired northman. He aimed his crossbow at her still body, then at Nymeria, then back again. “We should kill the beast!”

Arya felt Nymeria’s lips pull back into a snarl, and panic began to seize her. _How do I get out?_   Two heartbeats thumped in her ears, one pounding so fast and loud that every other noise was muffled. _How do I get out?_

“We’ll do no such thing,” said Beric, voice straining to remain calm. “Lay down your weapons, all of you.”

The men did as they were bid, eyes huge, and Arya felt sweet satisfaction swell in her chest. They are afraid of me. Every one of them looked as if they were about to piss their smallclothes, even the Hound, and the vulnerability that had plagued her since her father’s beheading began to recede. Killing Walder Frey had been a start, but she had still feared men like this, the Sandor Cleganes of the world, stronger and larger than she would ever be, no matter how many times she changed faces.

Now she only felt power.

Suddenly her vision fragmented, and Arya felt herself slipping back into her human body, shedding Nymeria’s skin. The world seemed disjointed somehow, and for a time all she could do was sit on her knees, staring at Nymeria’s retreating form, at her own hands, trying to make sense of what had just occurred.

“You have a role to play in the war to come, Arya Stark,” said Thoros finally, his words shaking with awe. “The Lord of Light has chosen you for greatness.”

“You’ve got to stop crediting your bloody red god with everything,” complained the Hound.

“Whatever the case, you have been blessed with an incredible gift,” said Beric. “You should accompany us north.”

“No,” said Arya, fingers finding Needle again. “I have to kill Cersei Lannister.”

She expected Beric to reiterate that grumpkins and snarks beyond the Wall were the true enemy, not the Lannisters, but he didn't get the chance. “Someone’s coming,” Arya said, and the men turned southward. Shadows were moving towards them through the fog, and this time they were human.

“Looks like you won't have to go all that way to find a Lannister,” said the Hound. “One’s walking right into your lap.”

A man and woman were riding along the riverbank, just becoming visible in the pale morning light. The woman was exceedingly tall, clad in fine armor and wearing a sword about her hip. A sword with a lion pommel.

_Brienne of Tarth._


	2. BRIENNE

BRIENNE

Pod rowed for days and never once complained. The tiny boat cut through the river at a slow pace, stirring the muddy, reddish water as they wound around islands and sandbars. To their left the bank was all dense forest, thick with grass and ferns and the trunks of redwoods. Kingfishers dove from stray branches, searching for schools of fish below the surface, and occasionally a deer or two could be spotted amidst the foliage. The other side of the channel was much more sparse, with foggy woodland stretching for miles beyond the strand.

Brienne offered to take over Podrick’s task several times throughout their journey along the Red Fork, but he refused so vehemently she finally gave up the effort. She supposed the young man simply wanted to do his duty as a squire, transporting them upstream while she scouted the shore for possible foes, but part of her suspected he knew she was in no mood to row.

Brienne had promised Sansa Stark that she would secure the Tully troops in time to help Jon Snow’s army take Winterfell back from the Boltons, yet she had been unable to convince Ser Brynden Tully to surrender Riverrun, and had just managed to escape before the Freys and Lannisters took the castle in the wee hours of the morning. Now, she was returning to the Stark camp with no more men, her mission failed, and for all she knew Sansa’s uncle was dead as well.

Not fulfilling the quest had devastated her, in more ways than one. When the Blackfish had handed her back Sansa’s written plea for help, the letter nothing more than wind slipping through her fingers, her heart had sunk. It had taken everything in her to tell Pod to send a raven, to force the words past her numb lips as her thoughts began to spin with what was to come. Thousands of men would storm the castle, slaughtering Tully soldiers and taking prisoners, replacing trout banners with lions and twin towers. And Jaime…

Jaime Lannister would be at the head of the siege, wearing his father’s red and gold armor, glistening like a god in the firelight. He had given her until nightfall to persuade Ser Brynden to yield his childhood home, and she was certain he would keep his promise and wait for darkness to arrive before ordering his men across the moat.

A small comfort lay in the fact that she had gotten through to Jaime, at least. She had stood in his crimson tent and told him of her plan to move the Tully troops North, if only he would agree to take the castle without bloodshed. It had spurred a round of bickering, but finally Jaime gave her his word, seemingly moved to prevent a greater loss of life in favor of more diplomatic tactics.

However, a tiny, seven-times-damned part of Brienne questioned his true motives. As she had reminded him that they were on opposing sides of the siege lines and would be required to fight each other in the event of a forceful takeover, she saw something like dread pass over his green eyes. Had he been as terrified of the notion as she? Just the thought of it had caused her stomach to twist in despair, and Jaime’s expression had ostensibly mirrored her feelings, all traces of sarcasm wiped from his features in an instant.

Did he hold some sort of affection for her? The same kind that had caused her eyes to mist and her throat to burn as she fled from his tent?

“My lady?” came Podrick’s voice, pulling her from her musings. Brienne felt her cheeks flush at the possibility that Pod had caught her indulging in such girlish fantasies, yet one look at his face replaced her embarrassment with cold dread.

“What is it, Podrick?”

The young man’s eyes were as big as eggs, and he used an oar to gesture to a spot half a mile down the eastern bank. There, under an overhanging elm branch, three bodies swayed lazily in the breeze.

For a moment, Brienne was baffled by Podrick’s fear. Their treks throughout the Riverlands had shown them far worse than swinging corpses, and she was certain he had grown used to such sights. And yet… they had been mounted the entire trip to Riverrun, allowing for a quick escape and better odds in the event of a fight. Now, they were without horses, and if the perpetrators of the hangings had decided to stick around, they could easily be ambushed. Even Brienne’s fast rowing would prove useless to men with crossbows and good aim.

They were sitting ducks.

“Bring us to shore,” Brienne ordered Pod. “We'd do well to scout the area.”

They dragged the boat far enough into the mud that it wouldn't float downriver, then made their way to the remains. Their arrival scattered a murder of crows picking at the rotting flesh, but otherwise, the space seemed deserted.

The men had been killed recently, a week ago at the most, their bodies just beginning to bloat. Blue veins marbled their swollen faces and their eyes bulged out of their sockets, yet Brienne could still tell that they had been fairly young, their hair not yet sprinkled with grey. They were dressed plainly in rags, bereft of any sigils, placing them as commoners or low-ranking soldiers. Strangely, the bearded one in the middle wore no boots. His pale feet dangled cold and wet above the mud.

“Freys?” asked Podrick. Brienne wasn't sure if he meant the corpses or those who had hanged them, but it made no matter. Allegiances in the Riverlands changed as quickly as the wind shifted directions, and whoever had done the killing was most like an enemy of theirs, Frey or not.

“We shouldn't linger long, whatever the case,” said Brienne. Although the only remnant of the previous occupants’ camp was an old, blackened firepit beside the river's edge, she still felt uneasy. Oathkeeper was a lethal weapon, but one unfit for combat against ten adversaries with longbows hiding in the bushes.

Evening was beginning to fall, painting the sky in golden hues beneath a grey sheet of clouds. Waxwing calls accompanied the pair as they set off on foot along the river road, and the wind grew so fierce it bent the reeds back, their tips just kissing the rippling water. They traveled until the moon hung heavy above them and the Red Fork joined the Blue and Green to form the Trident. After crossing over the bridge to the northern bank, the dim lights of a settlement glowed before them, and Brienne decided they could afford to rest. They had not had a proper meal since the morning they arrived at Riverrun, and the thought of a warm featherbed was making her eyes grow heavy.

The Crossroads Inn was three stories tall, with turrets and chimneys made of white stone. The building was surrounded by a low wall of broken white stones as well, and on its north side stood a stable and a bell tower. The southern wing was built over a bed of rocks and mangled, dead weeds, where the Trident once flowed beneath the inn’s back door and half its rooms. However, the river had moved nigh eighty years ago, changing the inn’s name from the River Inn to the Crossroads.

“O’ course, the inn’s ‘ad many names o’er th’ years, m’lady, from th’ Two Crowns to th’ Bellringer to th’ Clanking Dragon,” continued Jeyne Heddle, the innkeep from whom Brienne had been gathering information about the area. They sat across from one another at a table in the common room, with Pod to her left, his face buried in his bowl of stew. Brienne had paid a few coppers for a room overnight, and a few more for a hot meal. “I think th’ Crossroads’ll outlast ‘em all, seeing as how you can’t much change where it's located.”

 _Unless you burn it down_. The inn was positioned at the intersection of the kingsroad, the river road, and the high road, making it a popular stop for weary travelers and warring nobles alike. She had heard tales throughout the Riverlands of the inn being ransacked by this lord or that in an attempt to wrestle control over the region, and was surprised it was still standing.

“And how is it that you came to be the innkeep?” asked Brienne. Jeyne seemed young to hold such a title, being a waifish girl who couldn’t have seen more than fourteen or fifteen name days.

“My aunt Masha used to run th’ place, ‘fore them Lannisters got it in their minds to hang ‘er on a gibbet out front. Guess they were mad ‘cause Lady Stark come in ‘ere one day and ‘rrested th’ Imp.”

Lady Stark. The mention of Catelyn sent a stab of guilt through Brienne’s belly. She had sworn to protect her, to give her life for hers if need be, yet had been traveling to King’s Landing with Jaime when the Freys cut open her throat. Brienne hadn’t known of her death until they reached the Red Keep, and by then Lady Catelyn was already reduced to bones at the bottom of the Green Fork.

“Way I hear it, Masha begged Lady Stark to take ‘er quarrel elsewhere so as not to involve ‘erself, but she wasn't paid no mind,” continued Jeyne. “Don't see how my aunt was th’ one who deserved to get ‘erself killed.”

No, Brienne wanted to say, but Lady Catelyn paid that price as well.

“Then my cousin Rory took o’er, and he was killed by some lord too. So me and Willow, we inherited it after ‘im.” Jeyne turned around and gestured to a small girl cleaning the counter. Willow was a head shorter than Jeyne and seemed to lack her gentle disposition, but the similarities between their features were obvious; she sported the same chestnut locks and hazel eyes as her sibling.

“You and your sister… you're orphans?” asked Brienne.

“Ain’t everyone an orphan these days?” Jeyne replied, before a man slammed his drinking horn on the bar and bellowed for more ale. She sighed, picking up her flagon again. “T’was nice talkin’, m’lady. Not often we get customers much interested in conversin’ with us.”

 _It's not often you get customers at all_ , Brienne thought. The dining hall was nearly empty, with only three other patrons in their company. Two were seated in the booth in front of them, and as Brienne returned her attention to her stew, now lukewarm and congealed, she couldn't help but overhear their exchange.

“...threatened to send Edmure’s son to him in a trebuchet if he didn’t yield the castle,” the bald man was saying between bites. “Guess the rumours are true. The Kingslayer’s got shit for honor.”

“Shouldn't surprise no one. The monster pushed Ned Stark’s son out a window.” The second man took a drink, then belched loudly. “He was probably just eager to get back to King’s Landing so he could fuck his sister.”

As the pair laughed, Brienne found that her appetite had abandoned her, and let her spoon clatter to the table. The sound startled Podrick, who looked up at her with concern.

“My lady?”

“We should get some sleep. I'd like to head out early on the morrow.”

That night she dreamt of Renly, her sweet king, wearing his crown of golden antlers and sitting atop the Iron Throne. She kneeled before him, head bowed as he proclaimed her a knight of the Kingsguard. But it was a crimson cloak that was draped across her shoulders, and when she raised her eyes to meet his, she found emerald irises looking back, not blue. Jaime Lannister stood before her, beautiful and radiant, a smile playing on his lips. The sight took her breath away.

“S-ser Jaime? What are you doing here?”

He did not respond, instead gesturing to the crowd gathered behind them. When she turned back around, she found that they now stood at an altar in the Sept of Baelor, bathed in light streaming through the seven-pointed star. Only then did she notice that their hands - her right and his left - were tied together with ribbon, bound by a silver knot.

_A wedding?_

She searched his face, trying to determine if this was all some colossal jape, but found no hint of mockery. Would he be so cruel?

“Let it be known that Jaime of House Lannister and Brienne of House Tarth are one heart, one flesh, one soul,” the septon was saying. “Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder.”

The ribbon was unraveled, slowly, slowly, taking an eternity to fall to the floor. Brienne closed her eyes and tried to calm her rapid heartbeat, with little success. Everything seemed to be spinning around her, and she feared she would faint. _Why not be more humiliated?_ she thought miserably. _Just let yourself slip away._

Then she felt a hand on her arm, steadying her, and when she opened her eyes once more she saw that Jaime was keeping her upright. His expression was so sincere, so kind, that she couldn’t help but blush.

“Jaime-”

Suddenly his features twisted in pain, and the light faded to darkness as clouds smothered the sun. The world began to shake and shudder under her feet. _What's happening? What’s happening?_   Then she saw it: the tip of a sword protruding from Jaime’s chest, its blade rippling red and black. _Oathkeeper._ A shadow moved behind him, smoky and human-shaped. To her horror, it was her own face she saw in the haze, her own hand holding the hilt.

Brienne dropped to her knees as Jaime fell, cradling his head against her chest as she had in the bath at Harrenhal, so many years ago. Blood spread out from his wound and ran through her fingers, pooling on the marble floor beneath them. She wanted to scream for help, wanted to do something, anything, but knew it was useless. The life was already seeping from his body, his breath growing more shallow and ragged with every passing second. Water began to cascade from her eyes, blurring her vision until nothing but blackness remained.

When Brienne awoke the next morning, her cheeks were stiff with the salt of tears. The nightmare had left a bitter taste in her mouth, and she decided that the only way to ignore it was to keep moving. She and Pod visited the stables at dawn, trading silver stags for a lively piebald mare and a limping, rheumatic gelding. The day was crisp and windy, with light snow falling every so often. Frost crunched under their mounts’ hooves, and ice could be seen forming along the river’s edge the further north they rode. By mid-afternoon her lips were cracked and her face was blazing, but they continued on nonetheless.

The next two days passed by in much the same manner, only the air grew colder with each sunset. By the third day a dense fog had moved in, limiting visibility to a few feet in front of her horse’s head. She advised Pod to keep alert. Although they had forgone taking the kingsroad, there was no telling how many other travelers had done the same, or how many of them were friendly.

Eventually they decided to rest, sitting under a pine heavy with snow. They ate salt beef and stale bread, gifts from Jeyne Heddle on their departure, and drank water from the river until their tongues went numb. Pod was shivering through his leather jerkin, although he pretended not to feel the chill. Brienne was beginning to sorely miss the warmth of the inn.

“We’re only two weeks from the Stark camp,” she assured him, although at the pace they were going, it was like to be three. When they stood to leave, Brienne had to stretch out her legs to get the blood flowing again, and her muscles complained after so many hours in the saddle.

The world soon became a sea of white as they trudged on, the trees and mud blanketed by snow and shrouded in mist. Brienne wished she had had the foresight to bring a helm, to protect her skin from the biting wind and sharp sting of snowflakes, but no amount of yearning made a difference. The days began to blur in an endless wash of cold, and the nights were alive with the howling of wolves.

It was early one morning when they happened upon a group of men along the riverbank, a lot no more than ten strong. At first, she figured them a band of outlaws, and curled her frozen fingers around Oathkeeper’s hilt.

Then she saw a ghost.

“Brienne of fucking Tarth,” said the Hound, his words pulling her back to the last time they met by chance in the Riverlands. She had been searching for the Stark girls for months when she finally found Arya, accompanied by Sandor Clegane. She had fought him tooth and nail, leaving them both a bloody mess, and had abandoned him to die at the bottom of a cliff. But when she returned for Arya, the girl had vanished.

“I killed you,” she said, incredulous. Yet the man was most definitely alive, his ravaged face just as she remembered it.

“You're the woman who beat him within an inch of his life?” asked the older man in ragged robes beside him.

“Who are you?”

“Thoros of Myr,” he replied, and all at once images came flooding into her mind.

“You were the warrior who carried a flaming sword. A red priest.”

“Aye, a priest,” he said, “and a drunk and a sinner.”

“And you work for the Lannisters,” came a familiar voice from behind them, causing Brienne’s heart to skip a beat. _It cannot be_.

“Arya,” she said, and watched as the girl pushed the men aside to stand before her, sword raised. “But you… there has been no word of you for years...”

“That must please your friends,” Arya replied.

“You do not understand." Brienne swung out of the saddle, and Podrick hesitantly followed. "I swore an oath to your mother, Catelyn Stark, that I would protect you and your sister-”

“And the Lannisters just gave you a shiny new sword as a gift for plotting against them?” scoffed the Hound.

“You served the Lannisters your entire life, yet the last time we spoke you claimed to be watching over her as well,” countered Brienne.

“Aye, I served the fuckers, and hated them every day of it. Don't remember ever receiving Valyrian steel in return.”

“Jaime Lannister gave me this sword to defend Lady Catelyn’s daughters.”

At the mention of Jaime’s name, Arya’s face darkened. “Jaime Lannister was at the Twins a few days ago,” she said, voice chillingly hollow. “I saw him toasting the sack of Riverrun in the same hall my family was slaughtered.”

Brienne’s stomach lurched, and remorse came bubbling up her throat, threatening to choke her. What could she possibly say in Jaime’s defense? In her own?

She watched as Arya’s features went slack, and she only had seconds to think before the girl rushed at her. “Podrick, your sword,” Brienne called, twisting to avoid the slashes. She refused to use Oathkeeper against one of Lady Stark’s daughters, against a young girl with a skinny blade.

Pod drew his sword from its scabbard, tossing it in Brienne’s direction. She caught the hilt just in time to block a cut to her side. They danced across the glittering forest floor, steel singing, scraping, sparking. Brienne parried every blow, but stayed on the defensive, moving away as Arya moved in. The thought of injuring a girl she had vowed to keep safe sickened her more than anything.

The girl pressed the attack in earnest, swinging in high arcs, overhand, upswing, sideslash, always moving. What she lacked in brute force she made up for in sheer determination.

Brienne could not say how long they fought, kicking up mud and snow until they were both drenched. Arya seemed never to tire, her strikes coming just as quickly as before, raining down against the armor Jaime had gifted her. A few of her stabs made it into Brienne’s legs, blood blossoming on her thighs and calves. _How will this end?_ Brienne thought through the pain. Either she yielded and Arya killed her, or she killed Arya.

Suddenly Brienne knew what she had to do.

Pod’s sword skittered across the ground as she lowered to her knees, and Arya’s blade _swished_ above her head in an attempt to hit her middle. She could see the surprise in Arya’s brown eyes, but the girl soon masked it with anger, bringing her sword to Brienne’s throat.

“Kill me if you must,” said Brienne, voice calm despite her fear, “but your sister waits outside the walls of Winterfell with Jon Snow’s army, preparing to take back your home. Go to them.”

Arya stared at her, the shock evident in her furrowed brow and parted lips. “I don't believe you,” she decided finally. “Jon is at the Wall, and Sansa…”

“It's true,” said the man wearing an eyepatch, looking down at a piece of paper. _Sansa’s letter._ Brienne had kept it with her after Ser Brynden Tully refused them at Riverrun, and Podrick must have remembered. “This says the Lady Brienne is of Sansa Stark’s business to bring Tully troops North, to aid them in their battle against the Boltons.”

The parchment was passed to Arya. After a moment, her face softened, and tears glittered in her eyes. “It’s her handwriting,” she muttered under her breath, barely a whisper, and then she smiled. A true, genuine smile that made her look half a child again.

“I have served Lady Sansa for months,” said Brienne. “If it please you, I would escort you to their camp so that you may reunite with your family.”

Seconds passed, turning into minutes, and Brienne feared that Arya had not been convinced.

Then the girl gave an almost imperceptible nod.


	3. JAIME

JAIME

The throne room was dark, save for the soft glow of flames. Ablaze braziers roared amongst the crowd of courtesans, sending shadows across the vaulted ceiling and bathing everything in orange, yet the fires did little to dispel the autumn chill that permeated the air. Even here, in King’s Landing, the first signs of winter were beginning to emerge, blown in by a gust of icy wind from the North.

Jaime Lannister hardly felt the cold. Striding through the doorway of the gallery, he found that the entirety of the Great Hall, with all of its lords and ladies, shrank until there was nothing but her. _Cersei_. His mind spun as he stared at her, his twin, his other half, the same thoughts circling over and over in his head until he thought he'd go mad. _The High Sparrow is dead. Margaery is dead. All of Cersei’s enemies, demolished in an instant…_

Earlier that evening, as his palfrey had crested the hill above the stinking cesspool that was the capital, his gaze had immediately been drawn to the smoking ruin of the Sept of Baelor, to the black, ashy serpents rising from the rubble. His first instinct was to feel confusion - _Was there some sort of accident? How could the marble of the Sept burn?_ \- but it soon gave way to anger as realization dawned.

_...he had his pyromancer place caches of wildfire all over the city, beneath the Sept of Baelor, in the slums of Flea Bottom, under houses, stables, taverns..._

Cersei’s trial. She had guessed or she had been told, and her foes paid the price for her discovery. No one could corner a lioness without getting clawed.

Rumors floated about in the streets, and Jaime sent a few of his men to bring back snippets of them as he and his escort made their way to the Red Keep.

“An explosion, green as an emerald…”

“...wildfire, they say…”

“And King Tommen was seen falling down to the ground like a stone…”

By the time Jaime arrived at the postern gate, he had surmised what had occurred while he was away, had seen the damage done to the city at close range, and his mood had proportionately plummeted. Hot, bitter rage simmered beneath his skin as he looked upon the two Lannister men at the gate.

“Where is my king? I must needs speak with him,” said Jaime through gritted teeth, holding onto a thin shred of hope that the gossiping peasants outside the brothel had been lying. That Tommen was alive. That Cersei had not killed their last remaining child with her stupidity.

The guard on the right, a young lad with smooth cheeks and a large, hook nose, turned to his companion for a brief moment, then looked at Jaime. The boy’s gaze landed somewhere past his head, Jaime noted, and his expression was one of awe laced with paralyzing fear. A look the Kingslayer was quite accustomed to receiving.

“I am loath to inform you, Lord Commander-”

“I am Lord Commander no longer,” spat Jaime.

“My apologies, S-ser Jaime. But I-I must tell you that… the king has… passed on,” sputtered the guard, swallowing audibly before continuing. “There was an unfortunate incident in the Sept, and his lady wife, Queen Margaery, was slain. I suppose King Tommen could not… bear to be without her, and he… jumped from his quarters. The Queen Regent is to assume the throne as Protector of the-”

“Enough. Let me through.”

And they did.

Now, as he came to stand behind the balustrade overlooking the Iron Throne, Jaime knew there was no room left for doubt. _Tommen is dead._ His mother glided down the center aisle towards that grotesque chair, her dark skirts trailing along the marble floor. The tension in the cavernous hall was palpable as she reached the top of the dais, but Cersei lifted her chin in defiance of them all, keeping her gaze locked on the huge bronze and wood doors at the opposite end of the room. Jaime could feel the heat of the crowd’s hatred burning against his skin.

_Oh, how many enemies you have made, sweet sister._

Qyburn, the elderly, censured maester who had become Cersei’s most loyal servant since Jaime’s last return to King’s Landing, began to speak from his position to the left of the throne, his voice carrying loudly across the hall.

“I now proclaim Cersei of the House Lannister, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms.”

A crown was placed atop her head, thin and silver and decorated with the sigil of House Lannister, nestled within her golden mane. Then she sat on the Iron Throne, her lithe body engulfed by the twisting monstrosity of a thousand blades. In that instant, looking down at her kingdom, she was every bit a lion.

An insane thought came rushing to him then, the same thought that had been lurking for hours in the recesses of his mind and that he had suppressed for the sake of its very inconceivability. Impossible. Yet as Cersei turned her beautiful face to him, green irises black and glistening in the firelight, he could believe the notion for half a second, and his stomach lurched.

_What is this woman capable of?_

“Long live the queen!” shouted Qyburn, and the rest of the hall’s inhabitants echoed it.

Jaime watched a moment longer before turning away in disgust. Rather than go to his old quarters in the White Tower, Jaime made his way to Cersei’s chambers, the path so familiar he could walk it blindfolded.

The cavernous space was dominated by sheer drapes and arched doorways, and everywhere he looked he saw a memory of their passion. There, on the plush bed, or there, against that wall, or there, entangled in a corner of the floor, where they made love as they always had, since their days as children in the bowels of Casterly Rock.

Jaime paced the floor for a time, restless, until the recollections became too strong and he decided to use wine to dampen them. He was reclining on the cushioned bench of the balcony when Cersei entered the room some hours later, flanked by the monstrosity of a Kingsguard rumored by many to be a reincarnation of the Mountain. After all he had witnessed that day, Jaime was more disposed to entertain the idea than in the past, and found himself absurdly close to laughing at the madness of it all as he headed back inside.

“Leave me,” Cersei ordered the creature, and it turned on stiff legs and walked out the door, armor clanking. She moved to the ornate wooden desk near the terrace and poured herself a glass of blood-red wine from the carafe. “I didn't think you'd take so long to return, little brother. It appears you missed my trial.”

“It appears so,” said Jaime, unable to do anything but stand and watch as she drank deep from her goblet. The silver epaulettes of her dress were designed in great likeness to his golden hand, he realized, and her crown, while resembling a lion, was abstract, the mane tailored to evoke the Iron Throne.

“What is this dance we're about to play, Jaime?” asked Cersei, her words surprising him in their bluntness.

“What?”

“You're condemning me. I can feel it when you look at me.” She set her cup down on the table and sauntered over to his unmoving frame. He could smell her, all lilac soap and sweet Arbor red, and it took everything in him not to grab her round the waist and breathe in the scent of her neck, to push her up against the wall and take her in the candlelight, as he had done so many times before. Even now, after all that had happened, his mind struggled to relinquish her hold on him.

“Cersei, don’t,” he managed, despite the fact that her hands were already on the clasps of his armor and working to pull them loose.

“I want you inside me,” she whispered, lips brushing his earlobe before travelling down to suck on his clavicle. “You can be my king, Jaime. We can rule like Targaryens, side by side, you and me. Together. We’ll start our own dynasty.”

Cersei succeeded in removing his breastplate, and it fell to the floor with a clang. “Don't you want that?” She slid a hand into his breeches and squeezed, eliciting an involuntary groan from the back of his throat.

“Stop,” he said, although it was barely audible, even to him.

“You and me. We’re two halves of the same whole. I am you,” she purred, biting his lower lip until she drew blood, “and you are me.”

Suddenly, an image of Bran Stark’s face appeared in Jaime’s mind, cutting through the fog of lust. The boy’s eyes were wide and terrified as he began to fall from the abandoned tower in Winterfell. _Is that what Tommen looked like when Cersei pushed him out the window?_

“We're not the same,” Jaime growled, shoving his twin from him, knowing full well he was more angry at himself than anyone else.

Cersei glared at him, stunned, but her eyes were feral, not hurt. He could practically see her claws extending.

“You're right. We're not the same. I have both my hands, while it seems you've lost one.” Her insult stung, but somehow he was able to keep his face a mask. “I don't need a cripple. You aren't a Kingsguard anymore. You're _nothing_.” She began to laugh, a low, musical chuckle. “I am the _queen_.”

“Did you kill Tommen?”

Now it was Cersei’s turn to be taken aback, and as Jaime studied her face in the pregnant silence that followed, he saw a flicker of pain cross her porcelain features. But then her hand flew out and struck him, snapping his head to the side. Stars blurred his vision, and as they began to fade, a tingling sensation spread out from his cheek.

“How _dare_ you!” screamed Cersei. “He was my son! _Our_ son!” She hit him again, and again, until he heard her choke on a sob, the sound high and strangled.

She dropped her arms to her sides. “Get out.”

“As you say, Your Grace.”

Jaime bowed and went.

The days following the coronation dragged by in a wine-induced stupor. Jaime was not invited to sit in on any Small Council meetings, nor did he wish to. He supposed Cersei had been able to glean a large enough number of supporters to advise her, as he couldn't imagine she only spoke with Qyburn regarding important matters of the Realm, but knew they were few.

Her reign, as he had anticipated, was greatly detested, and he often heard servants about the Red Keep making japes, proclaiming her “Mad Queen Cersei” and “Queen Cunt”. They fell silent whenever he stumbled by, but he couldn't say he disagreed. His sister was far from a benevolent ruler.

Cersei’s decisions were rash and impulsive, destitute alike of foresight and concern for the greater good. Every judgement was based on pure emotion, made first and rationalized later, and the people suffered for it. Rather than attempt to make amends with the remaining Tyrells in Highgarden, whom she had scorned beyond repair (in an unfortunate accident, she claimed), she cut ties with them completely, leaving the population of King’s Landing without the bountiful harvest that had sustained them for years. Already food riots were breaking out across the city, but the queen simply sent gold cloaks out to squash them.

In many ways, Jaime’s twin reminded him of their firstborn son, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms until he was poisoned to death at his own wedding feast. Instead of rebuilding the Sept of Baelor, which had been the largest building in King’s Landing and its center of religious worship for the Faith of the Seven since the Targaryen dynasty, Cersei resolved to let the ashes settle, leaving the blackened pit a silent warning to those who dared threaten her power. Joffrey had been much the same, his desire for supremacy making an enemy out of everyone.

Jaime was beginning to wonder if madness ran in the family.

To pass the time between drunken blackouts, when he found himself sober enough to crave a good fight, Jaime went to the practice yard with Bronn. The sellsword-turned-knight had accompanied him from Riverrun, and Jaime was glad for it, if for no other reason than to have a sparring partner who understood his limits and pushed them accordingly. At times, however, as their swords clashed, his thoughts traveled to Brienne, to their duel in the woods on their journey to King’s Landing, blades kissing in a deadly, beautiful dance. He hoped the wench had returned safely to Sansa Stark.

Eventually the queen called upon him, requesting his presence in her chambers. Jaime obeyed, albeit hesitantly, and found Cersei at her desk, staring at a white piece of parchment.

“You wish to speak with me, Your Grace?” he said, and she flashed her green irises at him irritably.

“It appears the Starks have retaken their home. The bastard Jon Snow rode south of that bloody wall and defeated the Boltons in battle, aided by men of the Vale.” She swirled her hot spiced wine, perfuming the air with nutmeg and cloves. “And if the rumors are to be trusted, that _murderous cunt_ sits as Lady of Winterfell.”

Jaime watched her knuckles go white around the bowl of her goblet, saw her gaze turn distant and cloudy, and his heart sank. _Brienne._ Cersei would not allow this news to go unanswered, he knew, and he also knew that Brienne would be too gods-damned loyal to ever leave her lady’s side during a siege. _Stupid, stubborn wench._

“I need you to take five thousand of our best men and eradicate those frozen vermin from my kingdom, once and for all.”

Cersei’s statement hung in the air between them, heavy and thick, and the weight of it nearly crushed him. His body was so rigid he feared any movement would cause it to shatter into a million pieces.

“My place is by your side.” Even as he spoke the words, he was acutely aware of how untrue they were, of how much had changed.

Cersei’s eyes were sharp as they locked with his. “Your place is wherever I send you.”

“Winter is here. The traitors are like to die of frostbite before the snows even reach King’s Landing. If not, starvation will set in. They cannot possibly have enough provisions to see them through the season.”

The queen took a sip of wine. Behind her he could see the enormous crater where the Sept once stood. “Why so reluctant, ser? Did your sword hand contain all of your courage?”

“I swore an oath to Catelyn Stark to defend her daughters. Sansa Stark-”

“Is a treasonous, vile snake. And Catelyn Stark is dead. What, were you fucking that old wolf bitch?”

Her question was like another slap to the face. The implication that he could so easily lie with someone else, that he had been unfaithful to her, his sister, his lover, stole all utterances from his tongue for a full minute. Did she know nothing of his unwavering loyalty to her all their lives?

When Jaime did finally find his voice, it rang hollow and flat. “I will leave at once, Your Grace.”

Three days later, Jaime found himself in the stables, preparing for another journey throughout the Riverlands. _They will think me a fish yet._ Honor, his blood bay palfrey, was draped in a caparison of white, the color of the Kingsguard. Fifty knights and their esquires awaited his command, and he knew that beyond the city walls would stand thousands more; archers, cavalry, and outriders, along with the baggage train and maesters carting cages of ravens. His head began to throb.

“Bronn, you'll ride with me,” he said, and the upjumped sellsword joined him as he called the march forward.

The morning was cold and overcast, with promises of winter in every gust of wind. Jaime breathed in deep and tried to calm his mind as they made their way through King’s Landing and out the Dragon Gate. He had decided the night before that Cersei sending him to Winterfell instead of a groveling general was for the best; he would try to ensure a peaceful surrender as he had at Riverrun, and it could not be said that he had taken up arms against Sansa Stark, as some lickspittle was like to do.

Still, his gut twisted each time his thoughts traveled to Brienne. He highly doubted the Starks would willingly give up the home they just took back, and if the gossip was to be believed, Jon Snow was a formidable commander with the entirety of the Vale standing behind him. _The wench had better escape before the fighting starts, if she knows what's good for her._

Thoughts of the coming siege circled round his skull, tumbling back and forth until he felt he'd go mad. “Distract me,” he blurted, turning to Bronn. “These marches grow rather dull after a while, don't you think?”

“Aye, Commander,” he replied. The man was middle-aged, with black hair and black eyes and a perpetually amused expression etched on his face. “Was just gettin’ used to them King’s Landing whores entertainin’ me again after the last one, but I guess camp followers’ll do me decent enough.”

“Not what I meant.” Jaime knew it had been unfair to rip Bronn away from the city’s brothels after months on the road, but he needed someone he could stand to talk to if he was going to keep his wits about him on the trip North.

“Heard that Stark bastard’s fought White Walkers beyond the Wall, and that he's been stabbed half a hundr’d times and come back to life,” said Bronn. “Not sure there's any truth to it, but I don't think he'll be as easy to crack as Edmure.”

“What makes you think I plan on negotiating a surrender?”

Bronn fixed him with a knowing glare, one that saw through every façade Jaime could possibly put up, and the sense of vulnerability made him bristle.

“Prick,” Jaime snapped, wheeling his horse around to trot down the line. He was beginning to regret bringing the knight along.

That evening they made camp along a brook that ran just west of the Hayford castle. A thousand tents popped up in the pale dusk, and after a tedious dinner hosted by Lady Ermesande Hayford, a babe no older than two, Jaime found himself alone in his pavilion, well on his way to getting drunk. Mayhaps his sweet sister was onto something, always being in her cups. It certainly took the edge off.

Eventually he felt the urge to relieve himself, and went outside to search for a decent tree. The sudden chill was enough to sober him some, biting through his thin cotton shirt and seeping into his bones. Even here, at the outskirts of King’s Landing, the changing of the seasons was evident. Gone were the purple twilights of summer, warm and earthy and alive with the songs of crickets. Now the air was frozen iron, the glittering frost holding the hills and fields in its icy grip.

Jaime watched his breath escape in puffs of white as he unlaced his breeches, and steam soon rose from the stream he sent into the roots of an oak. The night was quiet, save for the distant murmur of soldiers and the hissing of his own piss, yet he couldn't bring himself to enjoy the solitude. Every moment that passed was a reminder of what was to occur in the following weeks, and how utterly helpless he was to stop it.

Cersei would never allow him to return without Winterfell firmly in her grasp, that much was obvious. It was either his head or Sansa Stark’s. _Or Brienne’s_ , a voice whispered. Unbidden, images began to swim before him, of her astonishing blue eyes widened in fear, of her broken body lying at his feet, her blood staining his hands. The slick red liquid glistened in her hair and bubbled from her lips, and her freckles burned against the pallor of her cheeks as the life slowly drained from her unmoving frame.

Jaime staggered forward and dug his nails into the bark of the tree, squeezing his eyes shut to banish the scene from his mind. But no matter how hard he tried, her frightened expression would not be extinguished, lingering behind his eyelids, branded into his consciousness. He knew it would haunt his dreams that night, and for many nights to come.

If he could find any sleep at all.


	4. BRIENNE

BRIENNE

The wooden gates of Winterfell loomed before them, covered by a latticed iron grille and smelling of freshly cut pine. Brienne had heard that the original entryway was smashed to bits by the giant Wun Wun in his final moments, allowing Jon Snow to infiltrate the castle and take the Bolton bastard prisoner. Less clear was how Ramsay had died; some northerners claimed Jon fed him to his direwolf, Ghost, while others asserted that Sansa allowed Ramsay’s own hounds to feast on his body. It mattered little to Brienne how the man had been killed, however, only that he was dead, never again able to lay a hand on Lady Sansa.

Or any of the Stark children.

Brienne snuck a glance at Arya, whose gaze was locked firmly on the grey direwolf banners that flapped below the ramparts. Ever since they received news of the victory, Brienne had caught the girl smiling when she thought no one was looking, a spark of happiness lighting up her usually grim face. The thought of going home, of once again living in Winterfell with her sister and half-brother, must have soothed the ache of so many years on the move, with no one to turn to but herself.

A pair of Vale soldiers appeared above them, sporting the soaring falcon and crescent moon of House Arryn. Crossbows sat loaded in their hands. “Who goes there?” shouted the shorter of the two.

“I am Brienne of Tarth, sworn sword of Lady Sansa, and this is my squire, Podrick Payne. We are returning from an expedition to secure troops from Riverrun,” said Brienne. “We are accompanied by Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, Sandor Clegane, and their companions, who wish to speak with King Jon regarding important matters of the Realm.”

“Don’t think that lot’ll be welcome here,” said the other man. “Last I heard they were out ransacking the Riverlands like a bunch of outlaws.”

“These men arrived with me, and they will enter with me,” said Brienne, although she did not fully trust them herself. Beric had explained their reasons for journeying north, and it seemed as though their intentions were pure enough, yet the fact that they had recruited the Hound made her wary. Still, they were the first people she had encountered in Westeros who believed in the existence of the Others, and she was confident Jon Snow would want to hear what they had to say.

“Who’s the girl?”

Before Brienne could respond, Arya spoke. “I am Arya Stark of Winterfell, daughter of Eddard and Catelyn Stark.”

The soldiers glanced at one another, uncertain.

“Arya Stark’s dead. She hasn’t been seen since… since the Hand of the King was executed on the steps of the Great Sept,” said one of them.

“Open the gates, you bloody fools, and let her own kin decide if it’s her or not,” growled the Hound. “Unless you think the girl is like to take down the North with that skinny sword of hers.”

After a moment of consideration, one of the guardsmen yelled, “OPEN THE GATES!” The portcullis was lifted and the gates drawn forward, allowing the party to enter the castle grounds.

As they rode across the mud, people stopped their duties to look, the bustling yard becoming quiet as a tomb in a matter of seconds. When their gazes landed on Beric and the Hound, expressions ranged from fear to anger to astonishment, yet no one seemed to recognize Arya. In truth, the girl was rather plain, with brown hair and brown eyes that could have belonged to any northern girl; she lacked the distinctive Tully coloring that distinguished her older sister.

Davos Seaworth, the smuggler-turned-knight who had been loyal to the Starks since Stannis Baratheon’s death, stood on the balcony overlooking the yard, lost in thought. But when he spotted the group, he jumped up, running inside to herald their arrival. A moment later, Jon and Sansa appeared behind the balustrade, cloaked in wolf pelts and looking every bit a king and queen.

“Arya,” whispered Sansa, disbelief written on her features. Jon walked slowly down the steps, stare never leaving Arya, until finally he came to a stop beside her gelding. They regarded each other a second before embracing, Jon picking Arya up out of the saddle and wrapping her in a hug. The girl circled her arms around his neck and squeezed her eyes shut, body relaxing into his hold.

Sansa glanced at Brienne, nodding in silent thanks before descending the stairs as well. She and Arya locked eyes as Jon released her, and the world seemed to shrink until there was nothing but the space between them.

“You don’t look as clueless as the last time I saw you,” said Arya.

“You still dress like a boy,” returned Sansa, and the girls broke out in tearful laughter as they fell into each other’s arms.

After watching them for a time, Jon turned to Brienne. “I must needs thank you for returning my sisters to me,” he said, the gratitude apparent in his voice. “You are a brave and honorable knight.”

“I am no knight, Your Grace,” she responded, although a blush began to creep up her neck at the compliment. She cleared her throat. “I found Lady Arya a day’s ride from the Twins, surrounded by this lot. I convinced her to come with me, and was of a mind to send them on their way, but when they heard I serve Lady Sansa…” Her voice dropped low. “They have matters to discuss with you, Your Grace, concerning the Others.”

Despite Jon’s newfound status as King in the North, he did little to hide the shock that appeared on his face.

“She has the truth of it,” said Beric, coming to stand beside her. “We would appreciate a word with you before we continue our travels.”

Jon donned a mask of indifference and considered them, gaze eventually landing on Sandor Clegane. “Why is he with you?”

Brienne saw that Sansa and Arya were now looking as well, although there was something in their expressions that she could not place. Apprehension, perhaps, or concern. Did they fear Jon Snow would kill the Hound?

“Clegane is a new man,” said Thoros. “He has decided to join us in our quest to save the Realm.”

Jon weighed his words for a moment. Finally, he said, “We will speak more after a hot meal. Take your horses to the stables, and we will sort out suitable rooms for you.”

Supper was served in the Great Hall, consisting of pigeon stew and hard bread. Brienne had never tasted anything half so good. As she ate, she watched the siblings interact, Jon and Arya laughing every few minutes over some fond memory and Sansa smiling beside them. The sight tugged at the corners of her mouth as well, although part of her yearned for her late brother Galladon, for her father, for Tarth. Would anyone welcome her so if she returned home? The thought was a bittersweet one, and she pushed it down each time it surfaced. _You found the girl,_  she reminded herself. _You fulfilled your oath to Lady Catelyn. To Jaime._

Soon all the plates were empty and cleared away, and a meeting was held at the far end of the hall.

The leaders of the Brotherhood were called forward to plead their case, Beric and Thoros standing before the great table where the three Stark children sat. Brienne watched the proceedings from behind Lady Sansa, hand on Oathkeeper’s hilt. Although Beric had explained that he and his men meant no harm, and Jon had extended rooms in the Guest House to them readily enough, habit made her hesitant to put her guard down completely.

“Forgive me for delaying this conference,” began Jon Snow, voice bouncing off the rough stone walls. The northern lords - Robett Glover, Wyman Manderly, and Lord Cerwyn, as well as leaders of other vassal Houses - had declared him King in the North only a week before, yet there was already an atmosphere of authority about him, an edge to his tone that conveyed power. “You must understand that Lady Sansa and I had not expected to see our sister again, and the shock of having her back was great enough that I felt we needed time to process it.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Your Grace,” said Beric.

“I understand you are a red priest?” Jon asked, turning to Thoros.

“Yes, Your Grace. I am a servant to the Lord of Light.”

“That… _practice_ is well known here. The priestess Melisandre of Asshai accompanied us from Castle Black.” The mention of the red witch sent a shot of hatred coursing through Brienne’s veins, and she saw that she was not alone. Jon’s eyes flitted briefly to Davos, whose face had gone slack at his words, and at the opposite end of the table Arya’s glare looked ready to bore holes in the floor. “Unfortunately, she oft misread signs from her god, and I was forced to give her a choice: ride south or lose her head.”

The threat lacing Jon’s statement did not go unnoticed, and the men visibly stiffened. “Your Grace-” began Thoros, but Jon cut him off before he could finish.

“However, the visions bestowed upon Lady Melisandre were not without merit. What is it your god has shown you?”

“Death,” said Thoros. “Death in the North and the South, spreading through Westeros like a plague. An army of corpses will cross the Wall, and lords and commoners alike will perish. Unless we all come together to stop it.”

“I have fought such corpses beyond the Wall, and the White Walkers that control them. I assure you they are not easily killed. Only dragonglass and Valyrian steel can slay the Others, and fire the wights. In any case, even the northerners don’t believe in them. How do you expect we get the entire continent to unite against something fabled along with grumpkins and snarks?”

Thoros gave a wry smile. “We bring one to them.”

Silence enveloped the room until all that could be heard was the screaming of the wind. _Bring one to them?_ Brienne had never seen the creatures herself, but she had faith in Jon Snow’s judgement, and what he had encountered on his trips past the Wall had clearly frightened him.

“You’re proposing we capture a wight and bring it here? South of the Wall?”

“It is the only way,” said Beric, and as his words washed over the hall, it became evident that he was right _._ No one would take the threat in earnest unless they saw it with their own eyes.

“Even if you could accomplish such a feat,” said Sansa, “many of the Great Houses are enemies. Some of their feuds go back to the Andal invasion. Who is to say they would put aside such deeply-rooted quarrels for the good of the Realm?”

“It is not their sense of compassion we hope to reach, my lady, only their innate desire to survive.”

Jon had his thumb and forefinger pinched at the bridge of his nose, as if warding off a headache. Finally he raised his head, and there was something resigned in the way he looked at the men now. “None of you has journeyed beyond the Wall, nor come face to face with the army of the dead. I have.”

Sansa turned to her half-brother, voice warning. “ _Jon._ ”

“I would travel with you and your men,” said the King in the North, and Brienne could see Sansa’s body tense under the layers of wool and fur she wore.

“I will follow you, Jon Snow,” said Tormund from his seat at one of the trestle tables. The wildling was a great bearded man with flaming red hair, and one of Jon’s most trusted friends and advisors. “I know more about the lands beyond the Wall than any of you southron twats.”

Jon nodded, gaze sweeping over the lot of them. “Lady Sansa will have charge of Winterfell in my absence. We leave at first light.”

The discussion clearly over, everyone filed out of the hall, including Brienne. She made her way to her quarters, crossing the yard under a torrent of lashing snow. Sansa had insisted she sleep in the Great Keep, and although Brienne had protested, offering to stay in the Guest House instead, it was there she found herself now. Her room was spacious, with a bed wide enough for six and a great fireplace embedded in the wall. As she tried to coax a spark out of some of the wood from the pile, she wondered which Stark had spent their childhood here. Sansa? Or Bran?

Suddenly her stomach tightened, and she let the branches fall from her hands. Moving to the window at the opposite end of the room, she pushed the curtains aside to look out into the night. Sure enough, the broken tower stood at the corner of the courtyard, walls shimmering faintly in the torchlight. What had Bran seen that had spurred Jaime to push him from the tower? He had intended to kill the boy, that she did not doubt. The thought made her sick.

  _…threatened to send Edmure’s son to him in a trebuchet..._

Wincing, she pushed away from the sill and went back to the task at hand. Eventually a flame bloomed amidst the rushes, and she had a decent fire to keep the frigid temperatures at bay. She pondered calling for a bath, as she had seen a wildling girl roaming the halls who she assumed was acting as a servant, but decided against it. The heat of the water was like to lull her to sleep, and she did not mean to drown in a bathtub.

Instead she removed her armor piece by piece, stripping down until the air nipped at her exposed skin, and curled up beneath the mountain of furs on the mattress. For all its width, the bed was too short for her long legs, and she had to keep her knees tucked up under her chin to fit comfortably. The warmth of the blankets began to thaw her frozen hands and feet, yet sleep eluded her. She lay awake for hours thinking of vows and direwolves and swords, and when the dark finally took her, catapults featured heavily in her dreams.

Dawn brought a blizzard to Winterfell, the world beyond the windows a curtain of white. Fire crackled loudly in the Great Hall’s hearth, yet the chill still lingered in the air, turning every breath into mist and cooling their food before it reached the table. They broke their fast on cold porridge and greasy sausages, with weak ale to wash it down. A decent meal, but Brienne hardly tasted it. Her mind swam with images of Bran Stark, falling to the ground, paralyzed, dead. And Edmure’s boy…

Jaime would not do that. She knew him. Had seen the honor he possessed. He had been lying to scare Edmure into surrendering the castle. That was all.

And yet… what the man at the Crossroads had said about wanting to return to Cersei would not leave her. Brienne, along with Lady Catelyn, had suspected long ago that Bran had caught Jaime engaging in some act with his sister, and had been pushed because of it. If the siege of Riverrun had been keeping the twins apart, would Jaime not go to the same lengths to ensure a quick resolution?

Brienne pushed her plate away. Perhaps she did not know him at all.

The hunting party gathered in the yard some time later, fresh mounts waiting at the stables and stacked high with supplies. The route to Castle Black was a straight shot from Winterfell, a fortnight’s travel on horseback, but like to be perilous in the storms. The snow was falling so heavily now that it was difficult to see within two feet of one’s face, and the flakes were chips of ice that dug into Brienne’s cheeks.

“Safe travels, Your Grace,” she said, and Jon nodded in response, giving her a faint smile. Then he turned to Arya.

“You will show me how well you use that sword when I return,” said Jon, and took the girl into his arms one last time. Before he could pull away, however, Ghost nuzzled his way between them, whining.

“You'll stay here, Ghost.” The white direwolf jumped up on his hind legs, nearly dwarfing Jon as he put his paws on the man’s shoulders and began to lick his face. Jon laughed, pushing at the animal’s chest, and seemed half a boy again.

However, when his eyes met Sansa’s, all playfulness left his features. “Down, Ghost.”

Based on the tension between them, Brienne deduced that the two had argued the night before, and by the looks of it, it had not turned out in Sansa’s favor. No doubt she had tried to persuade Jon to stay, reasoning that he had just been crowned King in the North and Arya had returned only yesterday. But on this matter, it was clear Jon would not budge.

“I know you will take good care of Winterfell,” said Jon by way of farewell, and despite her obvious resentment, Sansa was the one who pulled him to her.

“Be safe, Jon.”

The group left through the North Gate, their shadows slowly disappearing behind thick sheets of snow. Sansa, Arya, and Brienne watched until their shapes were swallowed entirely, the gates closed and barred behind them.

Three weeks passed before they received a raven - but it flew in from the South, not Castle Black. Sansa called Brienne into her solar late one morning, claiming she needed her counsel. When she arrived, she saw that Davos and Arya were also in attendance, seated in chairs at Sansa’s desk. Littlefinger stood in the corner, face unreadable.

“My lady,” said Brienne, uncertainty leaking into her voice. Despite the fact that Littlefinger had come to the Starks’ aid during the battle for Winterfell, she found it nigh impossible to assuage her suspicions about him, nor forgive him for his past ills. The man had sent Sansa to Ramsay Bolton, after all, and that was an act she could never pardon.

“A letter arrived from Howland Reed, one of my father’s old friends,” began Sansa. Only then did Brienne notice the creamy white parchment on the table. “Jaime Lannister was spotted moving through the Neck with a host of five thousand men, intending to lay siege to Winterfell.”

Brienne felt as though the floor had been ripped out from under her. _Is this another nightmare?_ Her mouth went dry as a bone, and it was all she could do to stay upright.

“Doing so is an act of war,” said Davos, cutting through the silence. “Does he mean to attack the whole of the North with only five thousand men?”

“He may not yet know the North is united,” said Littlefinger, “only that Winterfell is taken. Cersei must have sent him to retrieve it for her.”

“He is like to find out soon enough. If he’s got any wits about him, he'll turn around before the crannogmen drown half his men in the swamps.”

“It appears they already have,” said Sansa, the ghost of a smile forming on her lips. “The Kingslayer has been taken prisoner.”

A stillness descended on the room at her words, but before anyone could react, a Vale soldier appeared in the doorway, breathing heavily. “I apologize for the interruption, my lady…”

“Yes?” said Sansa, nodding him on.

“A girl and a boy are at the gates. The young man claims to be Brandon Stark.”


	5. JAIME

JAIME

The world was black, the air dank and cold around him. Distantly, he could feel the muscles of his legs moving beneath him, slow and stumbling. A light snow pattered against the fabric of the hood over his head. Ropes chafed his arms, the hemp constricting whenever he moved. His clothes were wet and clinging to his skin, drawing shivers from his body with every breath.

 _I’ve got to stop ending up in chains,_ Jaime thought bitterly as he slogged through the frozen mud. He could not say how long he and his captors had been traveling, only that they rarely stopped, resting just a few hours at a time before continuing on. His heels and calves were sore from so many days on the road, and he was certain walking was going to prove a difficult task when they finally reached their destination.

Jaime had never been to Greywater Watch, but growing up his maesters had described it to him well enough. The castle was the capital of the Neck and the seat of House Reed, enveloped in the swamps of the North. Accounts claimed it impossible to find by ravens and enemies alike, due to the fact that it had no set location; like all villages in the region, it was built upon a crannog, a man-made floating island that allowed the stronghold to be moved on a whim. No doubt they were taking him there to answer to Lord Howland Reed, ruler of the Neck and loyal vassal to House Stark.

House Stark. Jaime fought back the urge to laugh at his own stupidity. Of course the northern lords would declare for Jon Snow, bastard-born or not. The blood of Eddard Stark ran through his veins, and that was enough to make him fit for the position of King in the North, especially with Winterfell now firmly in his grasp. Cersei must have suspected as much, and sent him anyway just to rid herself of his presence. If not, Jaime had very little faith that she would dispatch reinforcements when she did catch word. Would she weep if he was killed? Throw herself down over his lifeless body and curse the gods? The notion was hard to conjure. Before, he would have given his life for hers, and she did not care whether he lived or died. A large part of him questioned if she ever had.

Eventually the group halted again, pulling Jaime from his thoughts. He assumed it just another rest stop, but when they ripped off his hood, he saw that they stood on a bank before the Castle of the Reeds. Indeed, the fortress was situated on a large bed of reeds and timber, bobbing in the middle of a heavily overgrown bog. The hold was encompassed by a tall fence, and the only way to reach it was by boat. _Small wonder foes deem it difficult to obtain._

Jaime was pushed down into one of the skiffs along the shore, and a few crannogmen hopped in after him, using oars to propel them through the water. Snowflakes drifted down through the air, catching in his eyelashes and adding to the white already piled on the thatched roofs of the castle. He wondered if winter would turn the slow-moving river to ice.

Upon arriving at the open gates of the island, Jaime was escorted to the largest of the buildings, a circular domed structure made of much the same material as the surrounding complex. The ground - nothing more than woven marsh grass and wood - was unstable under his feet, and he was half-dragged, half-supported across the yard. He did his best to avoid the stares of the people who stopped at the sight of him, their lichen-colored eyes wide and fearful.

The crannogmen were a small people, short and slim, and Lord Howland Reed was no exception. The chair he sat upon in the main hall dwarfed him, cypress driftwood twisting around his body until he all but disappeared. His skin was cinnamon, beard dried moss, irises virescent. He seemed molded from the very fen he called home.

“Caught him in the middle of one of our ambushes,” said a crannogman as he shoved Jaime to his knees before the dais. The floor rushed up to meet him, sending a shot of pain through his bones. “The lion didn't put up much of a fight.”

 _Not with ten poisoned spears at my throat_. The bog devils had bled his host every step of the way, first killing the ravens in their cages, then picking the men off night and day until half of them were lost to the mire. Jaime was no stranger to guerrilla warfare, but the crannogmen were masters of the difficult terrain, and had led him deeper into the Neck when he tried to turn back the way they had come. Soon he had been moving in circles, and it was only a matter of time before he was captured, with no way to send for help.

“You're not so great a general as some would insist,” said Lord Reed. His voice was gravelly and deep, at odds with someone of his stature.

“I'm afraid I've never been very good at battles,” returned Jaime. “My father could attest to that, if he were not rotting beneath the ashes of the Sept. Besides, I hear Jon Snow has earned that reputation instead.”

At the mention of the King in the North, Lord Reed stiffened.

“I assume you're sending me to him?” prodded Jaime.

“I might. Or I might send him your head.”

“That certainly would save time.”

Green eyes glared at green, and Jaime felt his pretense of bravado slipping with each passing second. _I must needs tread lightly. An unarmed man with one hand is no match for a room full of warriors with nets and knives._

Finally, Lord Reed broke his gaze away. “Give him something dry to wear, and feed him. You’ll leave within the hour.”

As Jaime was led from the room, he heard Lord Reed calling for a pen and piece of parchment. If the raven left soon, Jaime calculated, it would reach Winterfell in less than three days; four if the weather was harsh. He tried desperately not to imagine how Brienne would react when she found out he had been taking up arms against the Starks, to no avail. All he could see were her lips pursed in anger, eyes betrayed, disgusted. The image cut him deep.

In the end, the only article of clothing they could find close to his size was a torn, musty cloak, yet Jaime huddled under it gratefully. When they handed him a plate of food, however, he raised his eyebrows.

“It’s quite difficult for a man with no arms to feed himself,” he stated. The men looked at each other a moment, considering, before one of them stepped forward to slice the ropes away. His arms screamed as he flexed them this way and that, but it felt good to be free of the restraints for a time and get the blood flowing again.

When he turned to the dish on the table, his stomach grumbled. The fish was cold and greasy, the frog soggy, but he ate until their bones glistened.

“Time to go, Lannister.”

Jaime was tied up with fresh rope and taken outside through a door so short he had to crouch to avoid knocking his head. An escort waited in the yard, armed with frog spears and round leather shields. One of the men bore a standard with the sigil of House Reed - a black lizard-lion on a grey-green field. The group wasted no time in ushering him out the front gates, dumping his body unceremoniously into the same boat they docked earlier and rowing to shore. The strand squelched under his boots, slimy and frigid, and before long his toes were numb.

The journey to Winterfell was arduous, lasting nearly a fortnight. As they moved farther north, mucky swampland gave way to soldier pines and sentinels, and temperatures dropped considerably. Snowfall became a constant obstruction, coating everything in white and turning people to shadows. Jaime had never experienced such weather, and had to give the northerners credit for enduring it. The last trip he took to the Stark stronghold had been with Robert’s court five years ago, after Jon Arryn’s death, and it had not been nigh so cold. Summer had still been in full swing, he remembered, and he and Cersei had had to keep from fucking the whole way to the castle for fear of being caught. But in that broken tower…

A stab of guilt coursed through him, and the phantom fingers of his sword hand twitched. He yearned for a drink.

Eventually, through the grey mists of morning, the ramparts of Winterfell emerged on the horizon. The keep was all dark stone, standing like a huge rocky outcrop atop its hill. As they neared the entrance, Jaime noticed direwolf banners snapping above them in the wind, declaring the Starks’ return to their ancestral seat. Not a month ago, he knew, the flayed man of House Bolton had been in their place. _It is a game of thrones_ , he thought, _and it is like to never end._

“State your business,” called down a guardsman.

“We bring the Kingslayer,” answered one of the crannogmen. “Lord Reed sent him to stand trial before the King in the North.”

Jaime lowered the hood of his cloak, and the soldiers exchanged glances. They were Knights of the Vale, he saw, dressed in the sky blue and white of House Arryn.

“King Jon is away. He will answer to the Lady Sansa.”

The gates were opened, and the crannogmen brought Jaime into the yard. No doubt the entire household had been made aware of his capture due to Lord Reed’s letter, and Jaime kept his head bowed to evade their seething glares. _I may as well be my sweet sister_.

A northerner announced their presence in the Great Hall, standing in front of the table where Lady Sansa sat. She was much older than Jaime remembered, a woman grown, with flowing auburn hair and irises like shards of ice. Enveloped in furs, with her locks fashioned in the northern style, the girl was a spitting image of her mother.

“Bring him here,” Sansa ordered. Her voice was steel, hard and cold and sharp. _She is no longer a child full of dreams,_ he realized.  _T_ _he world has robbed them from her, piece by piece, until all that remains is someone who knows how to survive._

Jaime was thrown down before her, yet it was only when the northman moved from his line of sight that he noticed Brienne at her side. When his eyes found hers, his body tingled all over, and his breath caught in his throat. No amount of worrying had prepared him for the mistrust in her gaze. She looked at him as though he were a stranger. _No_ , he thought, blood running cold, _she looks at me as though I am a monster._

“My lady,” Jaime began, turning to Sansa, but whatever he had planned to say next melted on his tongue. _Words are wind, and my actions have spoken louder than any._

“Kingslayer,” returned Sansa. Jaime flinched. His heartbeat was thudding loudly in his ears, and despite the quiet of the room, he could hear her silently accusing him of every wrong he had ever committed against her family. The weight of her stare bore into his soul, daring him to defend himself.

“I swore a solemn vow to your mother that I would protect you,” he said finally, despite knowing full well it would make no difference. _Nothing will sway them, but I must try. I must try._ “My sister wants you dead, and sent me to reclaim Winterfell. But you must understand that I planned on negotiating a peaceful surrender. My intentions were never to cause you harm. You have my word.”

“Your word?” Sansa was incredulous. “Your word? Like the words Roose Bolton uttered as he plunged his dagger into Robb’s belly at the Red Wedding? ‘The Lannisters send their regards,’ I've heard it said. Others claim he mentioned your name specifically.”

“I had _nothing_ to do with that, I promise you. My father-”

“Yes, your father. He was an evil man, and you his son. What of helping the Freys take Riverrun from my great uncle? Of killing him for defending his home?”

“I only intended to take him prisoner. The Blackfish was a skilled warrior and a respected knight, and I admired him greatly.”

Sansa laughed. It was hollow and disbelieving, and the sound sent shivers up his spine. “Ah, so you only spare those you admire. Tell me, if my brother had been a knight, would you not have pushed him from that window?”

Jaime felt his heart drop into his stomach. Every part of him seemed to lose sensation, as if he were floating above his own body, watching the scene play out on a stage.

He could not justify attempting to murder a child. Just thinking about it made him want to retch. Who had he been back then? What had led him to make such a choice? His mouth was full of cotton, unable to do anything but gape.

Suddenly a noise came from the opposite end of the hall, startling everyone. Arya Stark stood in the doorway, a storm raging on behind her, sending a flurry of snow into the room. She held onto the handles of some sort of cart, and in it sat a boy.

“Jaime Lannister,” said Bran.

When Arya recognized him, her face contorted in rage and her fingers flew to the sword at her hip, but her brother stayed her hand. Bran gestured for her to move them forward, and she pulled him across the floor until they were only yards away. The young man pushed himself up on his elbows, shifting in the mound of pelts so he could look Jaime in the eye. His legs laid useless beneath him. “You've lost a hand.”

Jaime nodded, eyes flitting to his stump. He had brought his golden hand with him when he left King’s Landing, but hadn't been wearing it when he was captured by the crannogmen, and now the severed end of his right wrist stuck out from his sleeve.

“I cannot begin to tell you how sorry I am, for… everything,” Jaime said, and meant it more than any apology could possibly express.

“It appears we're both cripples,” replied Bran, not unkindly. Strangely, the boy did not seem particularly malicious towards him, and even gave him a faint smile. “We’ve all changed since then, haven't we?”

“I suppose so,” said Jaime.

“Some of us not much, it seems,” interjected Sansa, tone venomous. “You have once again taken up arms against the North, and you will be tried accordingly. We will wait until King Jon returns to make a final judgment.” She turned to the crannogmen. “For now, lock him in the kennels.”

Jaime was hoisted up and taken out into the blizzard once more. The kennels were a series of large indoor cages separated by a hallway, and branched off the main courtyard across from the Great Hall. Although a thick wooden door protected them from the worst of the icy conditions, the air was still well below freezing inside his cell, and his damp cloak did little in the way of insulating heat. Before the crannogmen took their leave, however, they cut his restraints for a second and final time, allowing him to stretch out his frozen limbs as they locked the bars around him.

The minutes ticked by like hours in the solitude, and Jaime found himself eager for a distraction. Unlike his imprisonment in the Stark camp years ago, after the Young Wolf had trapped him in the Whispering Wood, there was no battle excitement to watch, no fellow inmate to keep him company, no sky to tell time. It was only him and darkness and never-ending cold, and occasionally a rat or two. No dogs actually inhabited the place.

In truth, he did not need to escape boredom so much as his own thoughts. Images of his past deeds streamed through his mind on a loop, incessant, torturing him more than the constant drip of water in the corner. Attacking Eddard Stark in the streets of the capital. Killing cousin Alton in an attempt to escape captivity. Throwing Bran out the window. He had shoved a ten-year-old boy from a tower _hoping_ it would lead to his death, and did it without batting an eye. Even after, when he heard he was paralyzed, the remorse had been faint. Small. Nothing to keep him up at night.

Now it took away any hope of sleep.

That, and the doubt in Brienne’s sapphire eyes. Whenever he closed his eyelids and prayed to the Seven for unconsciousness, he saw that expression on her face again, clear as day. It was the same look he had received for nearly twenty-three years, from shopkeeps and farmers and soldiers and lords and noble ladies and fellow Kingsguard, and even her, in the beginning, before the bath at Harrenhal. Before he bore the truth to her in a fever-induced speech, and she learned of Aerys, of his obsession with wildfire, his desire to burn every resident of King’s Landing. Then she had known, had really understood. She began to call him Jaime after that, he recalled. The memory brought a smile to his lips.

He would give anything to hear her say she believed he was honorable again, to hear her tell him he was a knight. Ludicrous claims, to be sure, but warming nonetheless. She had taken his gift of a sword, named it Oathkeeper, and gone out to do good on his behalf because she had seen something in him that no one else ever had, not even Cersei. And now she took him for a liar, a man who could betray his vows, betray _her_ , without a care.

How could he blame her, though? The woman was naive and stubborn to a fault, but she was not stupid. He had been under his sister’s spell his entire life, that was obvious enough, and no doubt Brienne still questioned his level of devotion to her. If history was any indication, it was high enough to prompt him to kill a child, and Jaime despised himself for it.

Time passed in an endless cycle of self-loathing, and ghosts haunted whatever dreams he managed to have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hey guys! I actually uploaded before the week ended! :D I've been telling myself that I want to update at least once a week, and while it seemed like it wasn't going to happen with school and work and the holidays and everything, I surprised myself! Also, when I originally imagined the meeting between Jaime and Bran, Bran was bitter and angry and resentful. But thinking more about it, it just felt... off? Like somehow, after so much time has gone by and after training with the Bloodraven, Bran would have taken the higher ground and decided to not hold a grudge against Jaime. Not exactly forgiving him, but not being full of a need for revenge, either. I just think that Bran is becoming a very wise character, and that this reaction fits better with the kind of man he is growing into. What do you guys think? Is his being decent with Jaime too OOC? I'd appreciate any feedback! <3


	6. BRIENNE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Takes place the same night the last chapter ends (first night Jaime is in his cell). :)

BRIENNE

She tossed and turned for hours, but the tendrils of sleep refused to pull her under. Every time she began to drift off, his face would appear before her, a bolt of lightning jarring her awake. Reminding her of what a fool she had been to trust him. At Riverrun, she had given valuable information about Lady Sansa’s plans to him, the enemy, believing his sense of honor would persuade him to do the right thing. Yet as soon as he returned to his sister, he began to do her bidding, just as he always had. Always would.

How could she have been so naive, to think he had changed? To put her faith in someone so devoted to his lover as to attempt to kill a child? Claiming his recent actions had anything to do with his vow to Lady Catelyn simply rubbed salt in the wound, and made Brienne sick. Had the quest he had sent her on to find Sansa been a ruse as well? He had told her he always assumed the girl was dead, after all. How better to rid himself of some big ugly wench than to dispatch her on a fake mission across the continent?

She stared at the ceiling half the night, her thoughts tangling until she felt her skull was like to explode. A headache bloomed along her temple, and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force her mind to calm. It was futile. Sleep would not come, and lying restless only allowed the doubts to build.

Eventually the stillness became unbearable, and she threw her furs aside. Donning her boots and cloak, she took the tallow candle from the bedside table and slipped out into the hall.

The wind was fierce when she entered the castle yard, driving sleet and snow against the stone walls of the keep, yet she pushed on, shielding her flickering flame from the brunt of it. When she reached the kennels, however, she hesitated, her hand hovering over the doorknob. Seeing him would only increase her uncertainty tenfold, she knew. But not confronting him somehow seemed worse.

Taking a deep breath, Brienne pulled the handle towards her and stepped inside. Instantly she was hit with the dankness of the space, and as the outside world receded behind the door, she became acutely aware of how dark it was. Even the fires in the sconces along the wall did little to combat the blackness, and she had to squint to make any sense of her surroundings.

“Has Lady Sansa finally decided to execute me?” came Jaime’s voice from somewhere in the void, startling her. “I had hoped to get a last meal, but I suppose I can do without.”

Brienne followed his words until she came upon a cell to her left. A guard sat asleep in front of it, and she nudged his leg to rouse him. “I must needs speak with the prisoner. Alone.” She could hear Jaime’s clothes rustling as he scrambled to his feet. No doubt she was the last person he had expected to see.

“’ow do I know yer not gonna slit his throat? Lady Sansa wants ‘im alive til the king returns.”

“I am unarmed.”

“I’ll be th’ judge o’ that,” said the guard, and proceeded to pat her down from head to toe. The man’s hands began to wander as they traveled over her body, resting too long in certain places and pressing too firm in others. She was of a mind to knee him in the groin, and bent her leg to do so, but she never got the chance. One moment his fingers were on her, and the next his back was slamming into the door of the cell.

“The lady told you she was unarmed,” growled Jaime. He had his left arm looped through the bars and pressed into the guard’s neck, locking him in a chokehold. “Touch her again and I’ll strangle the life from you. That is, of course, unless she beats me to it.”

“Let him go,” Brienne ordered. Jaime obeyed, albeit reluctantly, and the gaoler wheezed as he tried to regain his breath. “The door, if you would.” The man’s eyes were daggers, but he did as she commanded, producing a set of keys from his person and unlocking the cell.

When the door clanged shut behind her, Brienne turned to Jaime. “You needn’t have done that.” Their eyes locked as she spoke, and for a moment neither of them moved. In the candlelight, his irises glowed like a cat’s, emerald burning bright. There was distress in them, and longing, and something else she could not place. Sadness? Remorse?

In the end, however, Jaime merely shrugged, and the tension continued. She could feel the gulf between them, stretching miles wide, a canyon with no end in sight. What was she doing here? Had she lost her wits? The man was a liar and attempted child murderer. Any illusions she had harbored about his honor had dissipated the moment she learned he was planning to sack Winterfell, reneging on his vows to Lady Catelyn, to her. Nothing he said could change that.

So why was she standing in his cell?

“Brienne,” Jaime said finally. The statement was simple, just her name, yet it sent shivers prickling across her body. She closed her eyes, trying to calm the rapid beating of her heart.

Abruptly she felt a hand on her arm, and she was transported back to her dream at the Crossroads, to Jaime’s cloak fastened about her shoulders, the ribbon falling to the floor, his hold keeping her upright.

And Oathkeeper piercing his heart.

Brienne jerked from his grasp, moving several paces away, and the candle fell to the floor. Its flame sputtered and died against the cold stone.

“Did you threaten to send Edmure’s son to him in a trebuchet if he did not yield Riverrun?”

The inquiry surprised Brienne even as it left her lips, lingering in the air and echoing throughout the kennels. Whatever had possessed her to ask him vanished in an instant, and regret coursed through her in its stead. _I was certain of his answer before I left my bed. Why confirm what I already know to be true?_

Jaime’s silence was his only response, and it cut her just as deep as if he had spoken. The admission was a knife twisting in her belly.

“For Cersei,” she said. It was not a question.

The cell was quiet for a time, interrupted occasionally by the drip of water in the corner. Seconds extended into minutes, and finally Brienne decided she had heard enough. She turned to leave.

Then, Jaime said, “For you.”

Brienne froze. As the meaning of his words washed over her, her blood chilled, turning to ice in her veins. Even with her back to him, she could feel his gaze burning through her clothes, smoldering against her skin.

When she faced him once more, his eyes glittered in the darkness.

“Do you think Edmure would have surrendered the castle peacefully if I had offered him comfortable rooms in Casterly Rock? Believe me, I tried, but the man was as stubborn as you are.” Jaime closed the gap between them with tentative steps, stopping when they stood a scant few feet apart. “He imagined me a monster, so I acted as one.”

The implications of his revelation swirled in Brienne’s mind, rendering her speechless. Jaime had been seeking to make good on his promise, intimidating Edmure into yielding the castle without bloodshed. He had given up his most valuable prisoner to keep from having to fight the Tullys. To fight her.

 _He may be lying,_ a voice whispered. But what could he hope to gain by doing so? He was a captive of the newly united North, his fate undecided at best. Trying to convince her that he was still worthy of trust would do nothing in his favor.

Suddenly Jaime’s hand found her wrist, as if he anticipated she would bolt at any moment. Brienne flinched, but she did not pull away as she had earlier, did not flee as she had so many times before. Despite the chill of the room, his skin was warm.

“You know me, Brienne,” Jaime said. Unbidden, memories flashed in her mind, of him rescuing her from being raped, jumping into the bear pit empty-handed to save her, swearing to return the Stark girls to their mother. “I would not have gone through with an attack against Winterfell.”

Guilt surged through her for having doubted him, for doubting him still. She wanted nothing more than to believe him, but even now a part of her questioned how far he would go for his twin, the golden queen he had been in an incestuous relationship with since they were children. A love like that could make men do impossible things.

“Come, curse me or kiss me or call me a liar. Something.” There was a tinge of desperation in his tone, making the words sound almost like a plea. Almost like a prayer.

Brienne could do naught but stand there, her body motionless as he moved closer, and all at once she knew why she had come. _But you love him,_ Cersei had told her at the royal wedding, so many years ago. Brienne had tried to put the conversation out of her mind since then, but now it all came rushing back: the queen’s knowing smirk, the feeling of being blindsided, the dawning realization that she was right.

Her declaration had been a thinly veiled threat, but truthful nonetheless.

Jaime’s fingers began to travel up her arm then, ghosting along the thin fabric of the nightshirt under her cloak, pulling her back to reality, back to his cell. Her breath caught in her throat. She was certain he could feel her heartbeat as it thudded in her veins, but she could not bring herself to move. The world narrowed until everything was the touch of his fingertips, the trail of fire they left in their wake. Heat blossomed between her legs.   

His hand halted at the juncture of her shoulder and neck, the touch light as butterfly wings, causing her pulse to quicken. Their faces were just inches apart, so close his breath fanned her cheeks. Her stomach flipped as he leaned forward.

The pressure of his lips against her own was slight, barely the suggestion of a kiss, yet it sent tremors down her spine. The sensation was over in an instant when he pulled back away, and she found herself staring at his face, trying to read his expression in the dim torchlight. There was no mockery as she had come to expect in moments like this, when the man doubled over and laughed, calling her a sow, collecting money from some friend in on a bet. His gaze held only confusion, and nervousness, and a trace of something darker.

Lust.

“Jaime,” she heard herself say, scarcely a whisper. At the sound of her voice, his eyes grew wide, and he swallowed audibly. She could see his mind working through what he had just done, as hers was. He had only ever been with his sister, Brienne knew, and she herself was a maiden still, never having been deflowered in her entire life. How could a man like Jaime Lannister possibly want a woman like her?

Instead of pushing her away in disgust, however, he placed his thumb under her chin, keeping their eyes locked.

“Do you trust me?”

Did she? The question repeated over and over in her head, crowding out every other thought until it consumed her. _Do you trust me?_ She remembered Bran’s crippled legs, and Cersei’s beauty, and her and Jaime’s fight in the woods, and Jaime shouting _sapphires,_ and the weight of Oathkeeper at her hip. Did she trust him?

 _You need trust to have a truce,_ Brienne had told him in the bath at Harrenhal, standing above him with water dripping down her body. She had loathed him and his demeaning remarks, and wanted nothing more than to drown him where he sat. But he had looked up at her with genuine honesty on his face, and said that he trusted her. That was when he started to divulge the story of the sack of King’s Landing, explaining how he had slew the Mad King to prevent the loss of thousands of lives. His finest act, reviled by millions.

Finally Brienne gave a nod.

Jaime’s hand caressed her cheek as he brought his mouth to hers again, more forceful than before, but still cautious, hesitant, gentle. For a time she stood rigid, her body unsure of the proper response, and then she opened her lips, slowly parting them for his kiss. He tasted of dirt and blood and salt, and she could feel his fingers moving to the back of her neck, drawing her nearer. His heartbeat thudded against her chest, quick and strong, competing with the one that pounded in her ears. Her whole body began to pulse.

Wrapping his arm round her waist, Jaime guided her to the wall opposite the door, and her back met frigid stone as his kisses traveled to her throat. She could hear her own breath, ragged as if she were in the midst of a swordfight, but it was distant, far off. All that mattered was the feeling of his lips gliding across her skin, sending gooseflesh in every direction, setting her insides ablaze. His knee gingerly spread her legs apart, causing her to shudder.

Jaime’s lips found hers once more, and soon his fingers began to work at removing her cloak. But the ribbon that bound it proved difficult to untie with one hand, and after a few moments of fumbling, he stiffened. Something in the air shifted, and suddenly he was breaking their embrace, moving away from her. She could feel the cold rush in at his absence, and his grip loosened on the knot until his hand went still.

As their breathing slowed in the silence that followed, Brienne’s cheeks began to burn with humiliation. She felt more a fool than she ever had. _He has come to his senses, and realized that no amount of darkness could make one forget what a big ugly wench the Maid of Tarth is_. She wanted to disappear, to run away, to slink back to her room and never leave.

Before she could do any of those things, however, Jaime spoke.

“You deserve better than to be fucked in some dungeon.”

His words were laced with self-loathing and disdain, and all at once she understood. _He thinks himself unworthy of_ me. The notion was nigh inconceivable, yet there it was, hanging in the space between them. Although she could not see his features, she sensed the confliction in his eyes.

“Dawn should be here soon, my lady. You’d best leave before you’re caught in the lion’s den.”

Brienne must have walked past the sleeping gaoler and through the storm to the Great Keep, because at some point she found herself in her bedchamber, lying beneath the pile of furs once more. _I have just awoken from another dream,_ she thought through the daze. But if it had all been a dream, why were her lips still swollen from Jaime’s kiss?

Her gaze found Oathkeeper in its sheath, leaned against the wall with her armor. She slid from bed and came to her knees before it, removing the sword from its ornate leather scabbard. The blade _hissed_ as it was released from the case, and the ripples shone black and red in the pale moonlight. Beautiful steel, but deadly all the same. A weapon intended to both defend and kill.

Brienne held tight to the lion pommel and said a silent prayer to the Seven, and then to the old gods of the forest as well, imploring them to protect Jaime, to save him. From execution and himself, and those who would judge him guilty the moment they saw him.

Shame choked her as she crawled back below the covers, and her neck ached where Jaime’s lips had pressed. He had bore his soul to her more than once, yet she had believed him an oathbreaker nonetheless. Was she no different from the rest of Westeros, from those who called him Kingslayer behind his back? The thought made her want to weep.

Tears fell from her eyes, and sleep did not find her until the white light of morning brightened the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Oh, and of course the "Come, curse me or kiss me or call me a liar" line is from the books, but I really love it and wish it had been included in the Harrenhal scene in the show, so I thought I'd find a way to incorporate it here!


	7. JAIME

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Sorry for the late update, but I promise to post more frequently now that finals are over and I'm on winter break. :)

JAIME

The days and nights blurred together in a fog of cold and misery. The stone walls leached any hope of warmth from the kennels, leaving Jaime a shivering mass in the corner, huddled beneath his musty cloak. The air was so glacial his toes and fingers burned with frostbite, and before long he lost all feeling in his limbs. He supposed it made no matter, though. All he could do in the confines of his cell was eat and sleep and think, and relieve himself in the wooden pail they had brought him.

His only visitors were the northmen assigned to guard him morning, noon, and night. They proved rather dull company, standing mute in front of the bars, hands on their sword hilts. The gaoler that had kept watch the first day learned to sleep against the cell opposite his, and Jaime was glad for it. If the man dared come near him again, he was going to get more than a good throttling, Jaime vowed. Brienne was not there to stop him.

As it happened, the wench did not return at all. He had not truly expected her to come back after the way things had ended between them, yet her absence bothered him nonetheless. He found his mind circling to their conversation often, grasping onto the moment she admitted to trusting him, to believing him. If he was to die at some point in the near future, as was most like the case, at least one person in this gods-damned world had faith in his word. But to what end?

Mayhaps that was why he had kissed her. With his honor hanging in the balance, her big blue eyes full of suspicion and reproach, he had acted on instinct, desperate to bridge that gap between them once more. To bring her close and kiss her doubts away. He could still feel her skin beneath his fingertips, the way her pulse had thrummed against his lips as he pressed them to her neck. Her mouth had been sweet and warm, her waist surprisingly soft under his palm…

_It used to be Cersei I’d think of this way._

Whenever his thoughts turned to his sweet sister, Jaime could muster only bitterness and resentment, and the shift left him with a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. After all, his golden twin had been the only thing that had kept him alive while he was held captive by the Starks before. The desire to return to her arms, to her bed, had burned hot in his mind the entire journey from the Young Wolf’s camp to King’s Landing.

In truth, Cersei had been the sole reason he had stayed in the capital in the first place. When they were fifteen, she had convinced him to replace the deceased Ser Harlan Grandison as a member of the Kingsguard, to keep him close to her and to free him from having to marry Lysa Tully as their father had arranged. Jaime had been hesitant at first, knowing that doing so would require him to relinquish his claim to Casterly Rock and his position as Tywin’s heir. But eventually he conceded, and decided to stay by his sister’s side.

 _I gave up my land, my title, my_ life _for her, for this woman I do not know. Do not love._

The realization chilled him to the bone.

Something like weeks passed before Jaime learned anything of the outside world. By then he had lost a decent amount of weight, and his hair had grown long enough to push back behind his ears. He was debating asking for a razor to shave off his straggly beard when the door of the kennels burst open, startling him. A group of men shoved through the entrance, holding torches and pulling some kind of animal in with chains. The creature snarled and thrashed, and it took all seven of them to force it into one of the cells across the hallway. As the bars were shut around it, the thing began to dash about wildly, banging against the walls and screeching like a being half-dead until it managed to slip free of its restraints.

Jaime struggled to his feet, fighting the wave of nausea that threatened to pull him back down. Once the stars faded a bit, he pushed his face through a slat in his cell to get a better look. The beast was definitely no animal, but it was not entirely human, either. He had never seen anything like it. The skin shimmered pale grey, tattered and torn as if in the process of decomposing. At times it crawled on all fours, while at others it stood on two legs. When its head snapped in Jaime’s direction, he saw that its eyes were an unnatural shade of blue, glowing as if cut from glaciers.

Snippets of half-forgotten tales surged through his head, myths of frozen, undead beings from beyond the Wall come to steal children from their beds.

_A wight._

Jaime staggered back, gaping in disbelief. _Impossible._ Yet no matter how many times he blinked, the reanimated corpse still appeared before him, jerking and flailing about like a bear full of arrows. Fear closed around Jaime’s throat, quick and suffocating, its icy fingers threatening to choke him.

Noticing his frightened state, one of the men from the party left his comrades and walked over, limping from a gash across his left calf. Upon seeing him, Jaime was pulled back to Winterfell’s yard five years ago, to the day Robert’s party departed for the capital. The boy had been watching a skinny sword being forged in the armory, and Jaime had swaggered up to him, all arrogance and pompous attitude, asking if he had ever swung a blade at a man before. He had been attempting to both warn and scare the child, Jaime supposed, and had reminded him that the Night’s Watch served for life.

Now the boy was a man grown, and he possessed a calm air of authority that came from experience in command.

“Jon Snow,” greeted Jaime. Despite the attempted conviviality, his voice cracked on the last syllable.

The newly crowned king simply nodded in response, regarding Jaime coolly. His brown eyes shimmered orange in the torchlight. _At least he didn’t call me Kingslayer._

“You’ve brought me some decent company at last,” said Jaime, gesturing to the writhing creature across the hall. “Although I assume he won’t be staying long. Where do you plan on taking him, pray tell?”

“The capital,” answered Jon.

Jaime whistled. “That’s quite a ways. Unfortunately, I don’t think my sweet sister will grant you access very easily. Given the North’s becoming a sovereign kingdom and whatnot.”

“We have no other choice. The Great Houses must be made aware of this peril before it’s too late.”

“She’ll cut your escort down before you even reach the gates.”

The statement was not a threat, just a fact, and by Jon’s unperturbed expression it was clear he had already come to the same conclusion.

“I have sent a raven to King’s Landing to explain the terms of the meeting. Hopefully your sister will sense the urgency of the matter and allow us into the capital peacefully.”

“Cersei is not one to sense urgency in anything unless it directly benefits her.” All at once, an idea bloomed in Jaime’s mind, its roots scrambling to take hold. After a few moments of considering, he decided the notion had merit. _This could work._

“There is another way,” Jaime said. “It happens to be mutually beneficial to both our causes.”

“ _Both_ our causes?”

“I would quite like to keep my head. You are planning to hold a trial, I assume?” Jon stayed quiet, and Jaime took this as a cue to continue. “Send me back to King’s Landing. I am the only kin Cersei has left. Returning me will be a symbol of peace, and I can convince her to let you through the city.”

A dubious expression lit up Jon’s face. “Do you take me for a fool?”

“No. I take you for a desperate man in need of a solution. As am I.”

A long silence ensued, and Jaime feared the White Wolf had not been convinced. Then Jon turned to the gaoler.

“Bind him and bring him to the Great Hall.”

Jon stalked away, and the northman ran to fetch fresh hemp. When he returned, he tied Jaime’s arms to his sides, leading him from the cell and out the wooden door. As the darkness of the kennels receded behind him, Jaime felt like a newborn babe experiencing the world for the first time. He had never been so glad to be outside, to see the sky, to smell fresh air. He savored the bite of snow on his skin, the crispness of the wind as it blew through his hair.

Then the walls of the Great Hall closed around him, and he was thrown to the floor once more. This time both Sansa and Jon sat behind the table, and instead of staring daggers at him, Brienne avoided Jaime’s attempts to catch her eye.

“You wish to be returned to King’s Landing,” began Sansa.

Jaime nodded. “I am the only family my sister has. Give me to her, and I assure you, she’ll be so grateful she’ll welcome you with open arms.” The lie came easily enough, although it appeared the lady had not been persuaded.

“We have received no word from the queen regarding your ransom, nor from our allies in the Neck about possible attempts to send reinforcements,” said Sansa. “Mayhaps you mean less to your sister than you thought.”

 _You have the right of it,_  Jaime thought. Instead, he said, “Mayhaps. But my being captured is a slight against House Lannister. Sending me to the capital will be a token of good faith on your part.”

“Good faith.” Sansa tasted the words for a moment. “Cersei killed the heirs to Highgarden, those who were her sworn allies, in cold blood. What does she know of good faith?”

She had him there. Jaime turned to Jon. “I’ve seen the creature you intend to bring to the capital. An army of something like that… it could destroy the Seven Kingdoms. If I explain how dangerous these things are, tell her I’ve seen one with my own eyes, she will have to let you through. My sweet sister is nothing if not selfish, and these monstrosities are threatening her kingdom.”

That seemed to give the siblings pause. They exchanged a glance, and Jaime could feel the noose loosening around his neck.

Then, Jon said, “Lannisters lie. Why should we trust you’ll do as you say?”

Jaime shut his eyes. _Why should they?_ He was the Kingslayer, oathbreaker, man without honor. He had pushed their brother from a window and taken their great uncle’s home. _My word means less than dirt to them._

“My lady, Your Grace,” came Brienne’s voice, pulling him from the darkness. All attention turned to her, and for a moment she shifted uncomfortably under the weight of it. Then she cleared her throat. “If I may speak freely.”

Sansa nodded, slowly, confused.

“He is not the man he was.” Brienne’s gaze found Jaime’s for a brief second before darting away, back to Sansa, to Jon. “I do not claim to forget his past crimes against your family, but…”

Eddard Stark’s cane _thwapped_ against the floors of the Red Keep, and Bran’s direwolf cried below the broken tower, forlorn.

“On our journey back to the capital, he saved me from being raped by the Brave Companions, and when Locke had me in the bear pit at Harrenhal, he… he came back for me, my lady. Your Grace. He jumped down onto the sand, unarmed, to save me.”

The memories flooded Jaime’s mind, as vivid as if the events had occurred yesterday. He had been tied to a tree, the chains digging deep into his arms, and heard the wench’s screams as members of the Bloody Mummers tried to beat her into submission. He had done his best to ignore it, to tell himself it made no matter, but before long he was weaving a tale of the sapphire mines on Tarth. Locke had believed him, and ordered Brienne be left unharmed. _That was when I lost my hand._

The lie had served her well enough, until it came time for Jaime to depart Harrenhal and leave her behind. Locke wouldn't take Selwyn Tarth’s offer, thinking the man was trying to cheat him of all the sapphires on the island, and put her in the bear pit as some perverse form of entertainment instead. She had been dressed in pink satin and Myrish lace, he recalled, the gown bloody and ripped to shreds. The tourney sword in her hand had been ineffectual at keeping the beast’s claws at bay, and she’d been raked across the chest and arm in long red slashes.

“He sent me to find you, my lady. To protect you, and keep his promise to your lady mother.” Finally Brienne’s cerulean irises locked on him. “Ser Jaime has done terrible things, but there is good in him.”

It seemed to Jaime that she was trying to convince herself more than anyone else in the room, yet her words rendered him speechless all the same. _Ser Jaime._ The first time she had addressed him as such had been at Harrenhal, he remembered. It sent chills down his spine even now.

When he glanced at the King in the North, at Lady Sansa, Jaime saw that they were just as stunned. _They are like to hang us from the same limb._ Suddenly he wanted to stand and shake her, to curse her for defending his honor, for endangering herself on his behalf. Brienne’s words would do naught to sway them, he knew, only call into question her own sense of loyalty for trying to protect the likes of him.

“Lady Brienne is far too generous. I am no knight.” Jaime gave her a pointed look, then shrugged through his restraints. “There seems to be plenty enough rope here for a decent noose. Shall we pick a tree?”

Brienne’s stare met his, and for a time the hall was as silent as a tomb, the only sound the howling of wolves from somewhere far away. _Stupid, stubborn wench!_ he wanted to shout. _Do you have a death wish?_ But she did not relent, her eyes boring into his, neck flushing pink in anger. It was only when Sansa’s voice cut through the hush that she finally broke her gaze away.

“Brienne rescued me from being recaptured by the Boltons. Since then, she has proven herself a true warrior and a truer friend.” Sansa looked to Jaime, but there was no kindness in her face. “If she has faith in your word, I will not doubt her.”

Jaime released the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

The King in the North sat mute for a time, lost in thought. Then he turned to his half-sister. “Such an exchange may be the only hope we have of entering the city in peace. We have no choice but to trust him.”

Jaime felt a rush of relief wash over him, tingling across his skin. When his eyes flitted to Brienne, he saw the same feeling mirrored in her features, despite her obvious attempts to obscure it.

“You will ride south with my escort, and precede us through the capital,” continued Jon. “You will have one week to persuade your sister to let us past the gates. If I do not receive word by then, your immunity will be revoked, and I will be forced to return with a larger host to put you back in chains.”

Jaime almost scoffed. “You would declare war against the Iron Throne?” The North was big, no doubt, and the Vale added significant numbers. But attempting to sack King’s Landing had been no easy feat even during Robert’s Rebellion, with the men of Storm’s End and Lord Tywin’s forces from Casterly Rock aiding them as well.

“Your sister does not have as great of odds as she once did,” said Jon. “Daenerys Targaryen has landed on Dragonstone, with Dorne and Highgarden standing behind her. Rumor has it a fraction of the ironborn have also pledged their allegiance.”

 _Have you?_ Jaime wanted to ask, but stayed his tongue. It made no matter. His sweet sister was surrounded by enemies, and he knew her allies were scarce. She inspired no love from her subjects, and when they sensed the tide turning against her, it was obvious which side they would choose to fight for. Small wonder she had paid no mind to his imprisonment. The sea was rising around her, threatening to pull her under, and she had only held the throne a scant few months.

Her reign was already slipping through her fingers like smoke.

“We leave on the morrow,” declared Jon, his words heavy with finality. Before Jaime could be dragged from the Great Hall again, however, Sansa spoke.

“Brienne will accompany you.”

It was clear from Brienne’s wide eyes and parted lips that she had not anticipated such a charge, and nigh a minute passed before she found her voice. “My lady,” she said finally, brow furrowed. “I have sworn to protect you…”

“And you have sworn to obey me.” In the silence that followed her statement, Sansa seemed to catch the sharpness of her tone, and softened it for her next words. “You are more capable with a sword than half the Knights of the Vale. I trust you will keep my brother safe in the capital.”

Brienne nodded eventually, but it was out of acquiescence, not willingness. _She loves the girl_ , Jaime realized. He wondered what it would be like to actually care about the person you’d sworn to serve. Too painful, most like.

They left the next morning through a storm of snow and ice. As the horses carried them across the yard, Jaime watched a cloud of ravens explode from the rookery, their black feathery bodies swirling around each other before heading off in different directions. One for every Great House in Westeros. But how many lords would actually heed the letter’s call instead of tossing it to the fire? Only time would tell, he supposed.

Their escort flew the direwolf of House Stark, but Jaime knew it would be switched out for a white flag of peace as they neared King’s Landing. They had him strapped to the saddle with a length of hemp, and more was coiled around his arms. The wight was restrained in a similar fashion, although its body was wrapped in chains, not rope, and confined to a portable holding cell atop a wagon. He could hear its shrieks behind him, bestial and wild, cutting through the screaming of the wind.

The trek southward was a great deal easier than the one he’d taken north with the crannogmen, mostly because he was no longer afoot, and the promise of warmer weather provided a decent incentive to keep moving. He rarely saw Brienne, though. She stayed up front with the King in the North, dressed in the armor Jaime had bestowed upon her, Oathkeeper at her hip. She still rode the mare he had given her, too. The animal was a fine steed, durable and surefooted. Jaime had selected her from the stables at the Red Keep, speaking with the head groom to ensure she was a reliable mount before gifting her to Brienne. He was glad to see he had chosen well.

The days passed at a crawl, and by the time three weeks had come and gone, Jaime was so stiff in the saddle he could hardly feel his legs. The party was just north of the Antlers when Jon abruptly called the march to a halt. They were at the border of the Crownlands, Jaime knew, a few days’ ride from the capital. No doubt the King in the North intended to go no farther until he learned of Cersei’s decision.

“A small escort will take you to the Red Keep,” said Jon as he reined up beside him. “We will wait here until there is word from your sister.”

 _One week_ , Jaime thought. It would take them almost three days to reach the capital, a day to travel through the city. Three more for a rider to bring the news back here. That left him mere hours to convince his sweet sister to open the gates to her foes. _It is nigh impossible, but it will have to be enough._

Jon ordered Jaime’s ropes cut, and his arms tingled as the restraints fell to the ground. _I’d best hope this is my last venture in captivity, else my arms are like to fall off as well._ The sky was slate grey and cloudy as his escort separated from the larger group, making their way through woods and orchards and neatly tended fields. The trees around them were bereft of leaves, their branches brown and bare, and snowflakes whirled through the air to land on their bark. Snow, in the Crownlands. Jaime had not thought he’d bear witness to such a sight in his lifetime.

_Winter is here._

They passed through small villages and crowded market towns dusted with a fine white powder, and stout holdfasts as well. At one point they rode past the Stokeworth stronghold, and his stomach lurched. Bronn had been betrothed to Lollys Stokeworth when Jaime recruited him for a trip to Dorne, promising him a better wife and castle in exchange for his services. Hopefully he had been able to escape the bogs of the Neck, although the notion was highly unlikely. Jaime made a mental note to inquire after the knight when they arrived at King’s Landing.

As expected, it was three days before they came upon the Dragon Gate, its heavy doors closed and barred and protected by an armed guard. The sentinels looked down at them warily as they approached.

“Who goes there?” one of them called from behind the parapet.

“Jaime Lannister,” replied Jaime. The guardsmen squinted suspiciously at him, irresolute. _They do not recognize me_. Understandably so. Before he had left the capital, he had been a clean-shaven man with short golden hair; now he sported long greasy locks and a matted beard, and was covered in dirt.

Jaime sighed and brandished his stump, waving it about for all to see. After a moment, the guards jumped up in surprise, eyes wide.

“Let them through!”

The portcullis was lifted and the doors brought forward, allowing the group to enter the capital. The pungent smell of the city enveloped them as they moved through the streets, a mixture of salt and rotting fish and shit, and Jaime’s eyes began to water at the stench. _Oh, to be home again._ He soon found himself thinking fondly of the musty scent of the kennels.

It was late afternoon when the cobblestones began to crowd with people, their bodies pressed so close as to block the path ahead. Jaime’s brow furrowed in confusion, and he spurred his horse forward, pushing through the horde to the street beyond. For a moment the scene before him did not register, and he looked around blindly. Then his breath caught.

Cersei had not been idle in his absence, it seemed. A procession of prisoners was being led down the avenue, bound at their wrists and urged on by spears of the City Watch. Some were irrelevant generals, nameless supporters of Highgarden or Dorne or Daenerys, but a few stuck out: Ellaria and Tyene Sand were prodded along by gold cloaks, their chins raised high despite the garbage being thrown at them, and a woman was dragged by the neck behind a horse decorated with the kraken of House Greyjoy. Yara, he heard the common folk shouting, and Euron Crow’s Eye. Was it truly her uncle that held the leash?

Jon had had the right of it. Only a small branch of the ironborn had pledged to the Dragon Queen after all.

And apparently the idea of kinslaying was not so taboo as it used to be.

Jaime wheeled his mare around and made for the Red Keep, but it proved slow going with the sheer number of people spilling out onto every boulevard. His escort was forced to take a roundabout way to the castle, as the parade filed along the most direct route, no doubt heading straight for the royal executioner’s greatsword.

The sky was black velvet when they finally arrived at the stables and dismounted. As a groom led his horse away, however, Jaime heard a familiar whinny from one of the nearby stalls and turned back around.

“You there,” he called, and the stable boy stopped.

“Yes, m’lord?”

“How is it this palfrey came into your care?”

Honor pawed the door of the stall and snorted, sending a puff of steam into the air. Jaime walked over and began to stroke the gelding’s face.

“Some man came riding in here one night, m’lord, and said he wouldn’t need it anymore. Said it belonged to… well, he said it belonged to you, m’lord.”

“This man… was he tall, with black hair? Middle-aged?”

The boy thought a moment, then nodded. “I believe so, m’lord.”

“Do me a favor, lad. When you’ve got the time, ask after a Bronn of the Blackwater. Most like he’ll be in a tavern or brothel. When you find him, send him to me.”

“Yes, m’lord. Right away, m’lord.”

Jaime nodded his thanks and went. The Red Keep loomed above, tall and ominous, walls weeping blood in the torchlight. He considered going to the throne room, then thought better of it. At this time of night his sweet sister was most like in her bedchamber, well into her fifth glass of wine.

It was in the hallway that he found her, though, walking with two members of the Queensguard at her side.

“Cersei,” he said.

The queen halted. Seconds ticked by in silence, and then she turned to him.

“Go,” she ordered her men. As they strode past, Jaime realized that he did not recognize either of their faces, and that the darkness of their armor had not been a trick of the dim light. Gone were the golden scales and white cloak of the Kingsguard that had been in place since the Targaryen dynasty, the colors he had donned for over twenty years. These suits were all black, with silver metallic detailing on the shoulders and breastplate.

“You have chosen a new Queensguard,” said Jaime.

“I have made many changes, little brother. While you were rotting in a cell once more, I was getting things done.” She smiled a thin sharp smile. “I should wear the armor, and you the gown, ser.”

It appeared she already was. A silver corset cinched her waist, reminiscent of plate armor, and a similar piece of metal ran from her collar to her shoulders. And when she moved, something glimmered at her hip…

Jaime squinted to make it out, unsure, and then he saw the ornate design of the hilt, the ruby shining red at its center.

_Widow’s Wail._

The Valyrian steel sword had been a gift to Joffrey on his wedding day, reforged from Eddard Stark’s greatsword Ice along with Oathkeeper. When Joffrey died, the sword was passed down to Tommen, and now that he was dead as well it seemed their mother had taken it for herself.

Cersei had always been envious of Jaime’s being born a boy, he knew, and growing up she had watched him in the practice yard with nothing but discontent. No doubt she had wanted to swing a blade too, but circumstance had kept her within the walls of Casterly Rock, practicing courtesies with the septa instead.

Now she could do whatever she wanted. Father was gone, and she was queen.

“Did you watch the parade?” asked Cersei, pulling Jaime from his musings. “I thought it might be easier for Ser Ilyn to keep the traitors still if they were tired from a long walk.”

“I seem to have missed Lady Olenna.” In truth, the idea of seeing the Queen of Thorns chained and pelted with trash left a bitter taste in his mouth. The woman had been old and sardonic, yes, but dignified nonetheless. He hoped Payne had given her a quick end.

Cersei scoffed. “That wilted old rose never left Highgarden. She saw the lions at her gate and decided to drink poison rather than face my wrath.”

“Lions?” Jaime had seen the sigil of House Tarly on some of the guards along the street, and assumed that they had turned on the Tyrells and been the ones to sack Highgarden. “You sent Lannister forces to the Reach?”

His sister looked at him like he had lost his wits.

“I am the Lord of Casterly Rock,” Jaime growled. “Those men are mine to command.”

“They serve their queen,” Cersei snapped back, “and you were off getting captured like the useless cripple you are.”

Jaime recoiled as if she had slapped him. His blood began to scorch, rage burning hot in his veins. The twins stared at each other for a time, neither of them daring to move or speak, and Jaime resolved to leave before he did something that would earn him a place in the dungeons. But before he could turn away, he remembered the icy stare of the wight, Jon’s ultimatum, Brienne coming to his defense. _I must needs finish this._

Taking a deep breath, Jaime swallowed his anger and plunged ahead.

“Jon Snow sent me to you,” he said. “He flies a flag of truce.”

“Yes, I’m aware,” replied Cersei. “The bastard’s letters made decent kindling.”

“I know what it must sound like, but he's telling the truth. There are things beyond the Wall… living corpses…” He shook his head, unable to fully believe himself. “I’ve seen one, Cersei. They’re real.”

The queen observed him for a while, trying to discern if he was jesting, and then chuckled. “Now I know you’ve been too long in a cell. The solitude has driven you mad.”

“It was no hallucination.” Jaime’s mind spun, searching for what he could possibly say to get through to her. How did one vouchsafe the existence of grumpkins and snarks without coming across as a lunatic? “You must believe me.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Jon Snow will return with his bannermen and storm the capital.”

Cersei’s eyes sparkled in the torchlight. “Let him. The White Wolf will break himself against the gates and die just like Robb St-”

“ _Li_ _sten_ to me, Cersei!” The exclamation burst from his lips like quail flushed from cover. He had heard enough of her arrogance. “This is bigger than lions or wolves or roses. An army of the dead waits behind the Wall, and they will destroy everything in their path unless we come together to stop them.”

Something shifted in his sister’s expression, her features going slack at his words. _I have her._ No doubt she was imagining the ramifications such a plague could have on her reign, on the kingdom she was already on the brink of losing. No one would heed the words of some queen in a distant city when the wights were attacking their villages, murdering their families, leaving nothing but ruins. Death was more powerful than any ruler could ever hope to be.

Cersei stood mute for a long while, lost in thought, fingers dancing above Widow’s Wail. Then she spoke.

“I will send ravens on the morrow to every corner of Westeros. The meeting will be held in a fortnight.” Her hand closed around the sword’s hilt. “I would see for myself just how dangerous these creatures are.”


	8. BRIENNE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm so sorry for the long wait! I got very busy during the holidays, and work has been crazy, so I've hardly had a moment to sit down and write. But I finally got Brienne's chapter done! Not much J/B here, but it's setting everything up, I promise! Hope you enjoy! <3

BRIENNE

The Dragonpit was a huge blackened ruin atop Rhaenys’s hill.

Back in the early days of the Targaryen dynasty, Brienne recalled as they entered through the enormous bronze doors, Maegor the Cruel had ordered it constructed to house the royal dragons. The building did so for centuries, acting as a gilded cage that stunted the creatures’ growth until they grew to only a fraction of the size of Aegon’s Balerion. Then the Targaryen civil war broke out. During the Dance of Dragons, thousands of starved, half-mad smallfolk stormed the pit, attempting to kill the beasts within. The dragons fought back, however, and set the structure ablaze. The roof eventually collapsed in on itself, forming a jagged oculus ringed by shards of the once-imposing dome.

Snowflakes drifted down through the nonexistent ceiling to melt in Brienne’s hair. She stopped just behind the King in the North, hand on Oathkeeper’s hilt. Ser Davos Seaworth was beside her, as well as Podrick Payne and the Hound. A score of northmen were outside, awaiting their signal.

They had been the first to arrive after the queen herself, it appeared. Cersei Lannister watched them from across the sand, dressed all in black, a thin silver crown on her head. Her golden hair was short as a boy’s. The style was a severe change from her previously flowing locks, framing her porcelain face like a lion’s mane. A sword belt hung about her hips, and a dozen guards surrounded her, including a man as tall as a mountain.

Jaime was not with her. He stood to the left of the royal party, accompanied by Ser Bronn. His golden hair had been cut as well, his beard shaved, reminding Brienne of the way he had looked at Riverrun. Clean and strong and regal. His clothes hung loose around his body, though, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Months in captivity had taken their toll.

Brienne managed to catch Jaime’s gaze a moment, their eyes locking across the pit. His expression was difficult to read from so far away, yet she could still feel the intensity of his stare, the heat it brought to her cheeks. Finally she nodded to him in silent acknowledgement. He had done as promised, convincing the queen to allow them safe passage through the capital.

When the rider had arrived at the Stark camp a fortnight ago, inviting Jon and his escort through the gates, Brienne had been overcome with relief. Jaime had kept his word. However, another part of her had been wary, and Jon had shared the sentiment. The last time all of Cersei’s enemies had been under one roof, they had been blown to bits by wildfire. What was to stop her from deceiving them the same way? But the notion had been a possibility since the day the meeting was conceived, and the King in the North decided it was a risk worth taking.

Now silence stretched on in the arena, the tension so thick a blade could not pierce it. Neither monarch would kneel before the other, Brienne knew, nor address them by the appropriate title. It was a staring contest between opposing sides.

Finally a deafening roar cut through the quiet. Everyone turned towards the entrance to find the doors screaming wide, allowing a man and his escort admission. The newcomer had not dismounted outside as the rest of the occupants had, and trotted in on a dappled grey stallion. Hoofprints marred the thin layer of snow. _Euron Crow’s Eye,_ Brienne surmised as the kraken of House Greyjoy rippled against the mount’s body. Euron wore a circlet of twisting driftwood, proclaiming him King of the Iron Islands. He had killed his own brother for that crown, people said.

His lot was brought to a halt next to Queen Cersei’s. They were something of allies now, despite Euron claiming himself a king. He had attacked the dragon queen’s fleet by sea and captured his own neice in the process, bringing her to the capital for execution. Her head had most like been among those decorating the Dragon Gate as Jon Snow’s party made to pass through.

Last of the leaders to arrive was the fabled Targaryen princess from Essos. She was as beautiful as men said, hair silver-gold and shining, eyes a deep violet. Seeing her was surreal. Despite the many rumors floating about Westeros, Brienne had found it difficult to actually believe in her existence, to imagine that a Targaryen had survived and raised an army and landed on Dragonstone. But the girl was undoubtedly authentic.

Daenerys walked with her chin raised, draped in exotic furs from across the Narrow Sea to keep the winter chill at bay. Tyrion Lannister was hard at her heels. When Brienne spotted him, her gaze darted to Jaime. She knew he had held faith that his younger brother was innocent during the trial of Joffrey’s murder, yet the Imp had killed their father on his way out of the dungeons all the same. No doubt there was harbored resentment.

Jaime’s stare was indeed locked on Tyrion, as was their sister’s. Brienne scanned the arena, and saw that Euron Crow’s Eye was glaring daggers at the man sporting Greyjoy colors in Daenerys’ company, and the Hound was scowling at the mountain-like member of Cersei’s Queensguard. Steel hissed as men on all sides began to draw their swords. _This meeting is like to end in a bloodbath before it even begins._

Jon seemed to sense the tautness of the air as well, and cleared his throat in an attempt to relieve it. All eyes turned to him. Despite Davos’ warning whispers, the King in the North moved forward, taking tentative steps until he was at the center of the pit. Brienne clasped Oathkeeper in anticipation.

“My ladies, lords,” began Jon. There was a note of anxiety in his voice that Brienne had never heard before. “I know most of us here are sworn enemies, and there is little love between us.” A few men scoffed at that, and one let out a bark of bitter laughter.

“But this is bigger than old grudges, no matter how grievous they may be.” Jon spun in a circle, looking at each leader in turn. “We are gathered here under a flag of truce because there is something that threatens us all.”

Jon nodded to Davos, and the knight ran to the doors. A while passed. Finally he returned with a group of northmen, carrying a torch with the shortened fingers of his left hand and helping them haul a cage covered by a black cloth with the other. Sounds emanated from behind the fabric, shrill and grating. The wagon was brought forth before Jon. After a beat, he removed the sheet.

The wight was bound in chains, wrapped from neck to feet, yet it still thrashed about, banging against the metal bars in earnest. Its skin was pale and bloodless, eyes glowing blue. Gasps rang out from the crowd.

Jon gestured to Brienne. She walked up and slid Oathkeeper through the slats. The restraints parted like silk. Then a northman opened the pen, and the corpse crawled onto the sand.

Steel hissed again, but this time all eyes were on the wight.

The creature slithered clumsily across the snow, head snapping in every direction, screeching and clawing and clambering. Brienne had never seen it free of its chains, and the sight made her blood chill. The thing had once been human, yes, but no human moved like that. It jerked and twitched as if pulled by invisible strings.

As the wight moved towards the audience, men of every sigil scrambled away, eyes wide. Even the burliest of them cowered in fear, swords held out at length. Jon backed the way he had come. Brienne edged close to him, fingers curled tight around Oathkeeper’s hilt. Her palms were clammy despite the cold.

The cadaver crept along the edge of the clearing, dragging its body though the snow. Euron’s stallion snorted and pawed the ground as it came near, tossing its head from side to side in agitation. The wight released a piercing, strangled scream, and suddenly the horse was rearing, standing up on its hind legs and kicking wildly with its hooves. Euron grappled with the reins, attempting to keep himself in the saddle, but the effort was futile. The King of the Iron Islands fell to the ground with a _thump_ , and scrabbled backwards on his elbows and feet like a frightened child.

The wight continued on, pacing back and forth along the line of spectators. At one point it traveled too close for the mountainous man’s liking, and suddenly he was lunging at it, greatsword in hand. A _swish_ of steel, and the wight’s arm sloughed away, dropping to the ground in a flurry of snow. But the thing seemed impervious to the pain. It persisted, lugging its body onward with one hand. The second arm was chopped off, and then both legs, yet still it wriggled on. Only when its head rolled onto the sand did the corpse lie unmoving.

In the stillness that followed, a collective breath was released from the onlookers. Brienne did not share their sigh of relief. She could still sense a rigidness in Jon, an apprehension of something yet to come, and watched nervously as he motioned Davos forward. When she turned her attention back to the dismembered corpse, Brienne saw the reason with a start. She blinked several times, trying to make sure her mind was playing tricks on her… No, the severed arm _was_ moving, its fingers dancing along the ground, trying to find purchase…

Everyone watched in horror as the body parts began to move of their own accord. The limbless torso simply flailed in place, but the arms grabbed at the sand and snow and heaved, carrying themselves forward. Brienne shuddered. If total dismemberment did not end the spell that reanimated them, what did?

Suddenly she remembered the meeting with Beric and Thoros at Winterfell, and Jon’s words.

_Fire._

Sure enough, Ser Davos was dashing across the pit, torch in hand. Fires bloomed where the flames touched, and the flesh sizzled and popped as it burned. Every gaze was trained on the spots of light, looking on as the body parts shriveled and blackened. Eventually just ashes remained.

“Only fire can kill a wight,” said Jon, shifting the attention back to him, “but they are the easiest to kill. The Others are much more formidable. Flames will not touch them. There are but two proven defenses against a White Walker: Valyrian steel and dragonglass.”

Jon let that sink in for a moment, glancing around the circle of rulers. “This is no fairytale. It is very real, and it threatens the life of every person in the Seven Kingdoms. I implore you to put aside your quarrels and fight for our home. For the living. We may not win, but together at least we stand a chance.”

No one spoke for a long time. Wind whispered through the walls, hollow and haunted, slanting the snowflakes that fell from the sky above. Euron’s horse whickered. A bell tolled somewhere along the coast, warning incoming ships through the snow.

Finally a voice ended the silence. “I will send troops north,” said Cersei. Brienne had not thought it possible for the queen to be intimidated, yet there was a thread of fear in her words, and she had an iron grip on the hilt of her sword, betraying a certain uneasiness. Brienne wondered if she knew how to properly wield it, or if wearing the blade was simply a symbol of power. She leaned toward the latter. “This dilemma can be neglected no longer.”

“You have my gratitude,” responded Jon. There was nothing to say after that, and the meeting came to an abrupt end. As the northern party filed out, Brienne cast a glance over her shoulder. Jaime’s eyes were already on her. There was a familiar sadness in the look that passed between them, a wonted pain that twisted her stomach at the thought of never seeing him again. How many moments had they shared like this, separated by distance and loyalties and oaths, thinking it would be the last? Somehow Brienne knew this would truly be it, and her heart ached.

When she finally tore her gaze away and turned back around, Brienne saw that Daenerys’ escort had begun to move with them, although the little queen was nowhere to be seen. Brienne followed Davos out the doors and into the biting wind, preparing herself for the long journey back to the horses. They had left their mounts at the base of the hill, and had three miles of steep stone stairs to endure before they reached the bottom.

Brienne was just about to begin the descent when there was a sound from behind, the soft but deliberate clearing of a throat, and she and Davos whipped around. Before them stood a young girl with warm brown skin and almond eyes. Brienne recognized her as one of Daenerys’ attendants.

“My apologies for startling you,” said the girl. “This one is Missandei of Naath, advisor and handmaiden to Daenerys Stormborn, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons. Her Grace wishes to speak with you.”

Missandei gestured to the palanquin behind her, elaborately carved and almost as large as Brienne’s bedchamber back at Winterfell. Over a dozen servants stood between the poles, waiting. Brienne glanced uncertainly at the Onion Knight, and could see her own confusion mirrored in his face. Then he shrugged.

“Always wanted to ride in one of those,” Davos said, and climbed in through the open door. Brienne knew she had no choice but to follow, and went in after him.

The space was all dark wood and opaque drapes, and despite its great size, the litter was quite cramped inside. Brienne took the seat next to Davos, shifting awkwardly amongst all the silks and cushions. She had always been more comfortable in armor, but being surrounded by such finery made her feel clunky and ungainly. The top of her head brushed the ceiling when she moved.

Missandei sat down opposite her, beside Daenerys, and soon the palanquin began to quake as they were carted down the hill.

“I have never liked taking these. It feels rather pretentious, doesn’t it?” asked Daenerys, breaking the quiet.

“Aye, but it sure beats walking down those steps, my lady,” said Davos, and Daenerys gave a small laugh. Her handmaiden did not.

“You are speaking to a queen. You will address her as such,” snapped Missandei. Daenerys laid a pale hand on her shoulder.

“It’s quite alright. There were two kings and queens in that pit alone. Their loyalties lie elsewhere.” The dragon queen smiled faintly. The woman was younger than Brienne had imagined, hardly more than a girl. There was kindness in her eyes, but Brienne sensed something darker underneath, simmering just below the surface.

“I did not know women could be knighted,” said the young queen. Brienne felt blood rush to her cheeks as she realized she was being addressed. “I must admit most Westerosi customs are foreign to me.”

“I am no knight, my lady,” Brienne confessed, “although Ser Davos is.”

“Aye, but she would have me on my arse in one fell swoop if I ever took up steel against her,” said Davos. “And it’s not just because I’m an old man. She could best half the knights in Westeros.”

“You are too kind, ser.”

Brienne had come to like Davos. In the beginning, when she had first arrived at Castle Black, she had been wary of him; after all, he had been loyal to Stannis Baratheon, and Stannis Baratheon had killed her sweet Renly with blood magic. But over the next few months the Onion Knight had proven himself a faithful supporter of the Starks, impressing her with his strong sense of justice.

“You both follow Jon Snow,” said Daenerys, pulling Brienne from her musings.

“He is an honorable man and an inspiring leader,” said Davos. “I am proud to call him my king.”

“He seems as much.” Daenerys’ fingers played with the white pelt around her shoulders. It had a thick mane, and the paws that draped over her chest were those of some sort of feline. _A lion,_ Brienne realized. “I would meet with him as well. I am going to need allies if I plan on taking back my kingdom. And saving it.”

So they were brokering an alliance.

“He mentioned dragonglass as a weapon against the Others,” continued Daenerys. “There is dragonglass on Dragonstone.”

“Aye, and lots of it,” said Davos. He had lived on Dragonstone with Stannis for years, Brienne knew, after saving his men from starvation during Robert’s Rebellion. He had been knighted as a reward, but lost the first joint from each finger of his left hand as payment for his past crimes as a smuggler. Doubtless he knew the island fortress better than the princess who had only been born there, whisked off to exile in the Free Cities as a babe.

“We cannot speak for the King in the North, my lady,” said Brienne.

“No, but you are his advisors. I trust you want to help him garner as much aid as possible for the wars to come.” The dragon queen looked from Brienne to Davos and back again. The kindness had left her eyes. “Persuade him to travel back to Dragonstone with me. My ship waits in the bay outside the city walls, north of the Iron Gate.”

“Why come to us?” asked Brienne, too bluntly. “Why not speak directly to him?”

“Discretion. The absence of the King in the North would be noted all too quickly in these streets, or so I’ve been told.”

She had been told the truth of it. Brienne had felt eyes on them as soon as they entered the capital, watchers for the queen, brothel keepers and filthy children and blacksmiths. A secret meeting between two of Cersei’s greatest adversaries would not go unnoticed. Brienne and Davos, on the other hand, were hardly so memorable.

They rode the rest of the way in silence. Eventually the litter came to a halt, and Brienne could feel the poles being lowered to the ground. She turned to Daenerys.

“Many thanks for the ride, my lady,” she said. “I hope we did not inconvenience anyone.”

Daenerys waved a dismissive hand. “It was no trouble. My Hand wanted to speak to his sister after the conference, and assured me he would find his own way back.”

 _Tyrion?_ Brienne had known that the youngest Lannister sibling had gone over to the Targaryen cause, but the fact that he had been named Hand to Daenerys was news to her. Cersei could not be too happy with the prospect. Brienne hoped the Imp had kept guards with him during their conversation.

The door of the litter was opened suddenly, allowing a cold rush of winter air to stream through. Brienne steeled herself against the chill and exited the palanquin, Davos close behind. They had not made good time. Already Jon was ahorse and waiting, as was the rest of their escort. He watched the litter move away with narrowed eyes.

“The dragon queen desires a meeting, Your Grace,” said Davos in hushed tones as he came up beside Jon’s gelding. “On Dragonstone.”

The king was already shaking his head. “I have been too long away from Winterfell. How can I claim to rule the North if I am never in it?”

“That is true, Your Grace, but… We need dragonglass. Daenerys sits on the largest known store in all of Westeros.”

Brienne could see Jon’s mind working, turning the idea over and over in his head. Finally he said, “She will ask me to bend the knee.”

“No doubt. But you can refuse.”

“That is no great start to an alliance.” Jon looked off into the distance a moment, then sighed. “Where is she docked?”

“Just beyond the Iron Gate.”

“Very well.” The King in the North turned to his men, adopting a louder tone to address them. “Ser Davos and I will take the Rosby Road along the coast. The rest of you will return to Winterfell by the kingsroad.”

“Your Grace?” Brienne had thought she’d be accompanying them to the ship, at the very least.

“I will be safe enough without your services, Brienne. I need you to return to Sansa.” His voice dropped low. “I do not like her alone in Winterfell with Littefinger. She claims not to trust him, but he has the reputation of being a master manipulator.”

Brienne was well aware. Just being in the same room with the man made her anxious. Something about his shifty pale eyes, or the way his lips curled when he spoke. Everything that came out of his mouth sounded half a lie. Sansa was a smart, capable woman, but Petyr Baelish was dangerous nonetheless.

“I will leave at once, Your Grace,” Brienne said. Her mount was where she had left her, tied to a hitching post outside the tavern at the base of the steps. Brienne unfastened the reins and swung into the saddle, giving Davos and Jon a nod before putting her heels into the horse’s side. They headed off in opposite directions. The Iron Gate was south of here, around Rhaenys’s Hill and through Flea Bottom, while the Dragon Gate was a straight shot north.

Brienne’s mare clopped over the cobblestones at a steady pace, keeping well ahead of the rest of the escort. She was glad to have the palfrey beneath her once more, the palfrey Jaime had gifted her, spirited and footsure. Brienne had left her at Winterfell during the trek to Riverrun to heal; a ball of hard-packed ice had stuck in one of her rear hooves, leaving the animal limping with a sprain. But she had made a full recovery in her absence, and moved now with the easy gait Brienne had grown accustomed to.

The sky was darker by the time they reached the gate, thick with heavy black clouds that promised even more snow. As they continued along the kingsroad, passing through fields and towns blanketed in white, Brienne tried to focus on the stinging of her cheeks, her frozen hands, the burning cold that seeped into her bones. But eventually her entire body went numb, and all she could think about was Jaime.

She would never see him again.

Mayhaps it was better that way, she reasoned. He was once again in King’s Landing, with his sister and her flattering fools, but he was safe. Every time they met, there was the looming danger of a battle or execution. Now they were both returning to their rightful places.

The escort set up camp in the pale blue of dusk, pitching their tents a few miles south of Brindlewood. They were still in the Crownlands, and would be for a few days, but Queen Cersei had promised every member of the meeting safe travels home. No great comfort, to be sure, but a royal decree nonetheless.

Brienne fetched water from a nearby stream and warmed it above a fire outside. Once it was heated through, she brought it into her tent and stripped down, pouring it over her naked skin as she crouched in a small tin bucket. She had never been overly concerned with cleanliness, but the stink of King’s Landing clung to her like a fog, and she was glad for the lye soap she had brought from Winterfell as she scrubbed.

Afterwards, when she was as fresh as she was like to get, she dressed and ordered Podrick to bring her pen and parchment. It was only when she sat down to write that she noticed the tears blurring her vision, turning the paper before her into a watery smudge. Her throat tightened as she attempted to hold back a sob. She could feel Jaime’s hands on her waist, his lips gliding down her neck, his breath fanning her cheeks.

Brienne wiped the hot tears from her face, swallowed her despair, and began to write.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Oh, and Bronn's survival/reappearance will be explained in the next chapter. :)


	9. JAIME

JAIME

The swords clashed and sprang and clashed again. Jaime put all his weight behind the strokes, anger propelling him forward, dulling the sting of Bronn’s blade when it bit into his flesh. They had long ago abandoned wooden swords for steel during their sparring sessions, but Jaime did not care. He drove the knight around the practice yard relentlessly, heedless of the pain. In truth, it was less a practice yard than a hidden slab of concrete by the sea, and less practice than an outlet for Jaime’s aggression.

His brother had returned. There had been rumors of Tyrion’s whereabouts, of course, of his turning over to the Targaryen cause and traveling across the Narrow Sea to Westeros once more. Actually seeing him in person was an entirely different matter. The rage and betrayal Jaime had felt upon discovering his father’s corpse had come bubbling up then, a terrible blinding fury that reminded him of his promise to kill his younger brother should they ever meet again. But when the dwarf had waddled in his direction after the Dragonpit parley, intending to engage him in conversation as well as Cersei, Jaime had simply walked away. Doubtless his twin had done the deed for him; while Jaime had always harbored affection for Tyrion, the same kind that had prompted him to help the man escape certain execution during the trial of Joffrey’s murder, Cersei had hated him since he drew his first breath.

Jaime knew not what had kept him from unsheathing his sword in that arena, only that the anger had simmered the entire journey back to the Red Keep, and he had craved a good fight to release it. Now he and Bronn circled each other, blades at the ready, panting and sweating despite the chill. Cold salt spray filled Jaime’s lungs, and his blood was singing. They had been at it for the better part of the afternoon, yet the overwhelming exasperation had not left, and surged through his veins anew whenever Tyrion’s face swam before him.

“Come on, then,” Jaime urged, and sent a cut to Bronn’s side. The knight dodged it effortlessly, then met his upstroke with a downward blow that shot tremors through Jaime’s arm. He hissed in frustration and rushed forward, swinging in high arcs over Bronn’s head, creating sparks where the blades came together and slid away. Satisfaction bloomed when the ex-sellsword stumbled backward suddenly, catching himself in a crouch. A smile graced Jaime’s lips as he brought his sword point to the man’s throat.

Then Bronn’s leg kicked out and sent him crashing to the ground. Pain lanced through his spine as his left elbow took the brunt of the impact. His sword flew from his hand, skittering across the concrete. Jaime groaned. Judging from the needling in his chin, he’d be picking gravel out of his skin for days.

“Cunt,” Jaime spat as he rolled onto his back, but he took Bronn’s offered hand and allowed him to help him to his feet all the same. Despite the man’s incessant need to humiliate him, Jaime was glad for his return.

The stable boy had indeed found him in a brothel, about a week after Jaime’s homecoming. Bronn had appeared at the entrance to his room one morning, leaning against the doorway in that no-fucks-given way he had, looking for all the world like nothing of importance had transpired since their last encounter.

“You Lannisters are hard to kill,” he’d said finally.

“I could say the same for you,” Jaime had retorted. “How’d you make it out of the Neck?”

Bronn had scoffed. “Not everyone’s as directionally challenged as you are, cunt.”

“I was captured.”

“Aye, I remember. And I also remember the bog devils leadin’ you on a merry chase through those swamps beforehand.” Jaime had glared at him then, and the man had laughed as he’d taken the empty chair across from him and poured himself a glass of wine. “Is your horse still alive? Rode ‘im pretty hard, the poor bastard. After you were taken, all hell broke loose. Thank the gods those mud-men have no experience with horses. Wouldn’t even touch ‘im. Neither would the rest of your men, the cravens. Didn’t have no problem stealing mine. Guess they thought the commander’d come back and kill ‘em for daring to sit on his palfrey. I figured you were as good as dead, and dead men don’t need a mount.”

Jaime recalled the night of his capture. The ambush had come well ahead of dawn. He hadn’t even had the chance to don his armor before the crannogmen had been in his pavilion, holding spears to his throat. He had seen Honor outside his tent as he was led away, but there had been no way to reach him without getting killed first.

“I rode out of camp and found the kingsroad, then made for King’s Landing,” continued Bronn. “You hear Bracken’s already got a child in Lollys? Your sister works fast, I’ll give ‘er that.”

Cersei had broken her agreement with Bronn before Jaime had left for Dorne, arranging Ser Wyllis Bracken to wed his betrothed instead. He supposed with nowhere else to go, it made sense for the knight to come back to the capital. There were enough taverns and whorehouses to keep him entertained for a few years at least.

“Got myself a nice manse at the edge of the city. It’s no castle, but it’s decent enough.” Bronn had taken a long gulp of wine. “So, you have another suicide mission to recruit me for? Or did you just miss my company?”

Jaime would be damned if he’d admit to the latter. Instead, he’d said, “I thought we could resume our lessons. I’ve spent months in captivity, and I fear I might have lost some of my progress.”

Doubtless Bronn had seen through the façade, but he’d only chuckled in response, quaffing more wine.

Now the knight passed him a wineskin as they sat at the edge of the yard to rest. Evening had already begun to fall, painting the world in varying shades of blue. The bay lapped behind them, slow and rhythmic, the only sound breaking through their easy silence.

“You ever gonna forgive the little bastard?” Bronn asked eventually. Jaime took a swig of wine. The liquid was bitter on his tongue, but he swallowed nonetheless.

“No,” he said.

“Pity.” Bronn snatched the canteen and drank. “Think she’ll actually go through with it?”

“What?” Jaime asked, perplexed.

“Cersei. I’ve never taken her for the compassionate type.” Bronn made to give him the wineskin again, but Jaime refused.

“Of course she will. She was just as frightened as everyone else in that meeting.”

Bronn stayed quiet.

“She promised to send aid,” Jaime insisted. “She wouldn’t be so stupid as to let her whole kingdom go to ruin.”

The knight raised his eyebrows then. There was a question in the gesture, as clear as if he had spoken.

_Wouldn’t she?_

Chills ran across Jaime’s body as the implication sank in. Had Cersei fooled everyone in that pit? He had never even considered the notion, assuming his sister would see the sense in protecting those she intended to rule, in fighting the plague that threatened to destroy all of humanity.

Then again, he had assumed a great many things about his twin that had turned out to be false.

The doubts lingered in his head long after he sent Bronn back to his manse. As Jaime made his way to the Red Keep, the snow began to fall faster than before, cascading down in an unending sheet of white. Before him the castle glowed with a thousand candles. He could see light emanating from Cersei’s balcony as well, high above the gardens, and that was where he headed.

Jaime traveled the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast until he reached her bedchamber. The door was sentineled by two members of her Queensguard, standing watch in their dark armor.

“State your business,” said one, no doubt squinting through the dimness.

“I wish to speak with my sister.”

The men let him past, and he found her in a chair before the great fireplace, goblet in hand. She wore the same gown from earlier, a fitted black dress criss-crossed with thin lines of silver. The flames illuminated her pale skin and shone in her golden hair.

“We need to talk,” said Jaime.

Cersei did not so much as glance at him. Her gaze remained locked on some point in the distance, out into the stormy night.

Jaime took a step closer. “I thought we should discuss how many men you plan to send north.” Cersei said nothing. He took another step. “As Lord of Casterly Rock, it falls on me to call the Lannister forces to arms. The Westerlands are fifty thousand strong.” Still she was mute. “The Stormlands are ever loyal to the throne, and can raise some thirty thousand men. The Crownlands, mayhaps ten to fifteen.”

The queen brought the cup to her lips, but did not drink. Instead she turned her stare to the fire. Her pupils were pinpricks in the intensity of the flames, yet she seemed to be looking through them, lost in another world.

“I lied,” she said finally.

The admission was a stone sinking in his stomach. He closed his eyes, attempting to quell the outrage that swelled in his chest. The floor shifted under his feet.

“Let the creatures take out as many of those northmen as possible, and the rest of my enemies with them.”

Jaime opened his eyes. His twin sat before him, bathed in the orange glow of the fire, expression unreadable. He had been wrong indeed. She was not the Maid, pure and innocent and radiant as he had told himself all his life. She was the Stranger, shrouded in darkness and death. Aerys reincarnated.

 _Burn them all,_ the Mad King shouted in his ear.

“Millions of innocent people will die,” Jaime ground out.

Cersei’s eyes met his for the first time. There was nothing in them. No remorse. No guilt. No contrition. Just the reflection of the flames as they danced across her beautiful face.

 Jaime turned and left her.

His mind spun as he walked the keep absently, passing over the dry moat of Maegor’s Holdfast and under the iron spikes that lined it, through the middle bailey, up the serpentine steps, around the Sept and the stables and the Tower of the Hand. By the time he arrived at the throne room, his hair and eyelashes were damp with snow. Jaime hardly noticed.

Fires roared in the braziers along the marble floor, yet the space appeared deserted. Cersei must have held court after returning from her discussion with Tyrion. There, beside the Iron Throne, Widow’s Wail was perched on its ornate wooden display, unsheathed. When the sword was not at his sister’s hip, it sat next to her as she took complaints from her subjects, bare for all the world to see. Even the most simpleminded of smallfolk understood what it meant to greet a guest with naked steel.

Jaime found himself drawn to it, pulled forward by some invisible force, and soon he was standing at the top of the dais. The blade truly was beautiful, rippling red and black in the firelight. Oathkeeper’s twin.

Unbidden, Brienne’s sapphire eyes flashed in his mind. He saw her standing across the sand, hand on the hilt of the sword he had given her, cheeks roseate from the cold. He felt the tenderness of her lips against his own, the heat of her body pressed close. Heard the determination in her voice as she defended his honor to the Stark children.

Suddenly the fog lifted from Jaime’s head. In its stead blossomed a clarity he hadn’t felt in months, a sense of purpose that had abandoned him along with his white cloak.

He knew what he had to do.

Grasping the ruby-encrusted hilt, Jaime lifted Widow’s Wail from its rack and sheathed it in the garish leather scabbard showcased below. The sword was heavy in his hand as he carried it across the yard to the stables. He found his palfrey in the same stall as before, clouds of steam rising through the air as he whinnied and tossed his head. Jaime saddled and bridled him, then tied the Valyrian steel longsword amongst the saddlebags. He swung onto Honor’s back and spurred him forward.

The streets of the capital were desolate at this hour, although occasionally a drunken brawl exploded from a tavern, or a group of whores called out their prices from a corner. Jaime galloped past them all, riding straight for the edge of the city. He had visited Bronn’s house on several occasions in the last week, needing a change of scenery from the castle that had come to feel like a prison. He hoped the knight was not out drinking and whoring.

When Jaime arrived at the manse, he dismounted, then rapped the metal knocker loudly against its huge oak doors. A servant appeared, and Jaime asked after Bronn. The girl ran to fetch him.

The knight was disheveled when he came to the door, either from sleeping or fucking, nude save a pair of knee-length linen braies. He ran a hand over his stubbled jaw and yawned.

“This had better be good.”

“You were right,” Jaime said.

“I’m always right, twat.”

“Cersei’s going to let the entire kingdom fall to pieces. I’m heading north-”

“And you’re here to ask me to come with you,” Bronn sighed.

“She’s going to want revenge once she realizes where I’ve gone. No doubt she already knows where you live. She’ll have you gutted in your sleep for your connection to me.”

“I’m not so easily killed, you arrogant bastard,” Bronn said, but after a moment he seemed to think it over. He was lucky the queen had been too preoccupied during Jaime’s imprisonment to murder him then. Cersei had no love for the ex-sellsword due to his past service to Tyrion, and now that Jaime was leaving, nothing could stop her from branding him a traitor and placing a bounty on his head just for the sheer satisfaction of it.

In the end, Bronn agreed. Once he was dressed and mounted, they rode out the Dragon Gate together, sticking as close as possible to the kingsroad. This near King’s Landing the highway was little more than two narrow dirt tracks poking up through the snow, and the darkness did naught in the way of visibility. They pushed their horses hard even so, weaving through the shadows of towns and holdfasts, never slowing.

They almost missed the encampment as they approached Brindlewood in the wee hours of the morning. The tents shimmered pale in the dying embers of the firepits, and Jaime had to squint to make out the sigil snapping above. _Direwolf._

A watchman stood vigil over the camp, pacing along the edge of it with a torch. He walked over when he heard the snorts of their horses.

“Who goes there?” the sentry called. A loaded crossbow sat in his hand.

“Jaime Lannister and Ser Bronn of the Blackwater,” said Jaime.

“Kingslayer? You’re supposed to be back in the capital.”

“Change of plans. I must needs speak with the King in the North.”

“He’s not here,” the man said. “Gone off on a secret mission. Sent the rest of us back this way.”

“Is the Maid of Tarth still with you?”

Bronn went to warm himself by the remnants of a fire as Jaime was led to her tent. The sentry kept the crossbow aimed at him all the while, only stopping when he disappeared behind the flap to inform her of his presence. A minute passed before he returned and nodded Jaime through.

Brienne stood at the center of the tent, wearing a plain cotton tunic and trousers. Her short, straw-colored hair was a mess, and her eyelids were puffy. He felt a pang of guilt.

“I’m sorry for waking you,” Jaime said.

She watched him, wary, as if she could not truly believe he was there. Neither of them spoke for a time. There was a candle on the floor beside her sleeping furs, lending the space a muted yellow light. With the flap of the tent closed, the air was surprisingly warm, and Jaime could smell the faint traces of lye.

“You left King’s Landing,” Brienne said finally.

No doubt she was trying to prompt an explanation out of him, but Jaime found that the words stuck in his throat. What had motivated him to leave? _I chose to fight for the living. I chose the North. I chose honor._

The truth came to him all at once. He closed the gap between them with quick strides, halting when they were a breath’s distance apart. Brienne looked at him with wide, startled eyes, those deep blue pools he would drown in if he stared too long.

“I chose you,” he said, and kissed her.

There was a moment where Brienne hesitated, her entire being stiff and rigid, and Jaime feared she would pull away. But then, slowly, tentatively, he felt her lips open against his own. Her kiss was gentle, gentler than any he had ever known, slight and timid in a way that set his blood afire. His hand found the back of her neck, drawing her close, and soon began to travel southward until his fingers grasped the hem of her nightshirt.

Jaime broke away to search her face then. Apprehension creased her brow, but there was something else glinting in her eyes, something strong and sure and unafraid. It looked like trust.

Brienne allowed him to remove her tunic, helping him pull it up over her head to reveal the smallclothes underneath. Soon her trousers were a puddle on the floor as well, and her undergarments quickly followed. Then she stood before him, naked as her name day, all freckles and impossibly long legs. He drank in the sight of her, sweeping his gaze from her small breasts to the white-blond bush at the juncture of her thighs.

“You’re beautiful,” he sighed into her neck as he brought her into his arms again. Jaime moved them to the mound of pelts at the corner of the tent and laid her down. His lips brushed her earlobe, her collarbone, the space between her teats, savoring the satiny feel of her skin. He took a pink nipple in his mouth and sucked until it was firm, eliciting a quiet murmur from the back of her throat.

Jaime ran his fingertips over her body, tracing the sloping curves of her hips and the hard muscles of her abdomen, exploring every inch of flesh. Finally he halted at the warmth between her legs. He flashed her a questioning look, unsure, but she nodded in response, shyly encouraging, and he slid a finger inside her.

Brienne’s breath hitched suddenly, and it was mere seconds before her back arched and her hands dug into the furs beneath them. A soft moan escaped her lips. The sound sent shivers down his spine, and he could feel himself stiffen further against the fabric of his breeches. He placed a second finger in her, and then a third, and soon she was wet around him.

Eventually he pulled away to undress, fumbling with his clothes until they were a heap on the ground. He felt her eyes on him as he moved back above her, capturing her mouth in a kiss once more, tasting the sweetness of her tongue. Her hands gingerly ghosted up his bare chest to lock at the nape of his neck, running through his hair. Waves of gooseflesh prickled his skin at her touch.

Jaime pulled back one last time to look into her eyes, to map the scars on her face, to note the swollenness of her lips and the way a flush had crept down her neck. He kissed the hollow of her throat and her chin and the space between her eyebrows. Then he entered her.

Afterward, when he had spent his seed inside her, they lay breathless atop the pile of furs, still entangled with one another. Jaime sketched lazy patterns along her arm, watching her chest rise and fall, the blush slowly fade from her cheeks. She kept her gaze averted, however, blinking bashfully at her hands. It was as if she only now realized what they had done. Jaime chuckled and bent to nuzzle her neck.

“Get some rest, Brienne,” he whispered. She nodded obediently, but sleep did not find either of them. Instead he held her until the first pale light of dawn. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hey guys! Jaime finally coming to terms with Cersei's madness and deciding to leave King's Landing for the North is something I've been really excited to write (it's what got me wanting to write this story in the first place), so I hope it was decent. And to be honest, I've never written a sex scene before, so I hope it was decent too! Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it! :)


	10. BRIENNE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reputation is what other people know about you. Honor is what you know about yourself.  
> \- Lois McMaster Bujold, "A Civil Campaign", 1999

BRIENNE

Jaime took his leave of her in the blue-black twilight that lingered before the sun rose.

“I should go,” he said when he noticed the growing brightness. His voice was tight. He made to stand, breaking their embrace and pressing his lips to her forehead one last time. Brienne closed her eyes and relished the feel of his kiss. He had lain with her for the better part of the past hour, holding her close, whispering sweet words in her ear. She had never imagined a man’s touch could be so gentle. And yet…

Blood rushed to her cheeks as she recalled what they had done. It all felt like a dream. But there was a very real soreness between her legs, an ache foreign and new, reminding her of the way he had felt inside her. There had been pain at first, so strong that water had sprung to her eyes, but Jaime had kissed her tears dry and spoken softly to her until the pain ebbed into a strange form of pleasure. The sensation had moved through her like the swell of the sea, and his fingertips had sent ripples across her skin, ghosting down her arm, her hip, her thigh, mapping her flesh.

Now, as he dressed, Jaime’s eyes were fixed on her, traveling over her body as if he were trying to commit every detail to memory. Perhaps he was. He had told her of his plan to head to Casterly Rock with Bronn, to gather troops and bring them north to join King Jon’s forces. They would not see each other for a month at least. The thought made Brienne’s heart clench.

“Although I prefer you unclothed,” said Jaime, interrupting her musings, “you’d best dress as well, my lady.”

Brienne flushed, but she knew he had the right of it. The camp was like to wake soon, and she did not want Podrick to happen upon her in such a state, nor any of the other men who may need speak with her. She extricated herself from the sleeping furs and began to pull on her smallclothes. As she was lacing up her breeches, Jaime’s arm wrapped round her waist from behind, his fingers splayed against her belly. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

When she turned to face him, however, her smile died. Jaime’s expression was grave. His eyes searched hers, brimming with dread, and suddenly she understood. _Another goodbye._

But this time there was no stretch of sand between them, no boat rowing her away, no conflicting loyalties. Just him standing in her tent, body so close she could feel the heat radiating through his leather jerkin. When he kissed her, slow and sweet, it was a promise that they would meet again.

Brienne watched him leave, looking through the flap of the tent to ensure no one had taken note of his exit. To her relief, Bronn was the only man in the clearing, his form illuminated by the fire he had evidently coaxed back to life. At the crunching under Jaime’s boots, he shot up, alarmed. His features twisted into a wry grin a moment later.

“ _Don’t_ ,” warned Jaime.

The knight said nothing, but his knowing smirk was word enough. Brienne let the tent flap fall closed. She listened as the two men readied their mounts, leather creaking and horses snorting. Soon there was the sound of hooves pounding through snow, fading into the distance until quiet descended upon the camp once more.

Brienne sat on the mound of furs, alone now. Images from the previous hours swirled in her mind. She saw the candlelight reflecting in Jaime’s emerald irises, glinting off his tousled golden hair, glowing against the play of muscles in his arms. Naked, he had looked half a corpse and half a god. _Just like in the bath at Harrenhal_ , she thought. Her heart fluttered as she remembered the feel of his lips gliding over her body, kissing her face and neck and breasts, and the way his eyes had glittered with lust all the while…

A fear hit her suddenly, not for the first time. It was a notion old and familiar, sprouting in her mind like a weed. She did her best to ignore it, but the roots were buried deep, and in her solitude she was helpless to distract herself. She found her hand reaching for Oathkeeper, releasing it from its sheath, laying it across her lap. The surface of the blade was rippled from a thousand folds, yet she could still make out her face in its reflection. Lips so plump they seemed swollen, nose crooked and broken, skin marred by scars and freckles alike. Ugly beyond a doubt.

_All compliments from men are lies_ , Septa Roelle hissed sharply in her head, _and if you want the truth all you need do is look in the mirror._ The truth was staring back at her, plain as day. There was no beauty to be had in her prominent teeth and thin, straw-like hair. She knew that. Had always known. But she also remembered how Jaime had looked at her as she undressed, his green irises full of tenderness and hunger at the same time. _You’re beautiful_ , he’d whispered, gazing at her like she was the most desirable woman in Westeros.

She had seen the honesty in his features, heard it in his voice. _He was not lying_ , she told herself, despite the demons muttering otherwise. She took a breath and pushed the doubts away, burying them within. She was no beauty, but in his arms she had felt like one, and that was enough. She was enough.

Brienne repeated the words over and over until she almost believed them.

Eventually the camp began to stir, and the smell of frying blood sausages wafted in with the laughter of men and the clangor of squires taking down tents. Podrick appeared some time later to help with her armor. As he was working the clasps of her breastplate, she could hear the question in his silence, but the boy made no move to speak. Doubtless Jaime’s presence in her tent had made the rounds, and rumors had reached his ear.

“Ser Jaime intends to bring aid north,” Brienne said finally. “He came to speak with King Jon, and figured I was the next best option. I will need a raven to inform Lady Sansa of his plans.”

By the time the escort was packed and mounted, the sun was well up, its golden rays peeking through cracks in an ashen sheet of clouds. Snowflakes piled on the metal helms and shoulders of the knights as they pushed on through the glittering landscape. Although no one confronted her, Brienne could sense the glances of the men around her, could hear the whispers of the squires at her back. _Let them talk_ , she instructed herself. _Words are wind._ She had dealt with the sneering of men all her life. This was just more of the same.

As she rode, Brienne thought of Jaime, of his being branded the Kingslayer for over twenty years. He had known the truth behind his motivations all along, but never been able to tell a soul. The world had painted him a man without honor, called him _oathbreaker_ behind his back, judged and sniggered and condemned. Despite his attempts to feign indifference, Brienne knew that it bothered him, and he had been forced to live with it every day. To harden his heart against the preconceptions that would haunt him for the rest of his life. No matter what he did, he would always be the man who killed his king.

Suddenly Brienne’s chest swelled with pride. Jaime had chosen honor, deciding to do what was right instead of dissolving into his reputation. She wanted to wheel her mare around and find him, to tell him she was proud of him. The rest of the world could have their assumptions. She knew who he was.

Who she was.

The remainder of the journey passed with a lightness of heart Brienne was not sure she had ever felt, not even when she was a young girl on Tarth, when the world had seemed so black and white and far away. Even then there had been the humiliation of broken betrothals, the longing for respect and acceptance that had been so elusive. Now she walked the camp like one half-asleep, ignoring the stares of the other men, letting their whispers wash over her. She did not owe them an explanation, nor did she need their approval. Nothing could touch her so long as she kept the truth close.

They arrived at Winterfell late one evening under a dark felt sky. The snow was deep in the North, so high their horses trudged through to their chests. Brienne’s calves were drenched when they dismounted inside the castle walls, but she did not bother to change. Instead she went in search of Sansa.

She found the Lady of Winterfell in her solar, nursing a glass of steaming spiced wine and reading over various parchments.

“My lady,” greeted Brienne.

Sansa looked up. Her long auburn hair glowed like fire in the light of the oil lamp, shimmering red and orange and gold, deep russet and black. She had half of it pinned up in braids, reminding Brienne distinctly of Lady Catelyn. Her irises were pale slivers of ice.

“Brienne.” Sansa set the papers down on the desk. “I received your letter.”

Two ravens had flown from the Stark camp; one to inform her of Jon’s trip to Dragonstone, another to inform her of Jaime’s trip to Casterly Rock. Brienne had a pretty good notion which of the two she was referring to.

“Cersei lied to everyone in the meeting. We will get no help from her.” Brienne had provided such details in the letter, yet even so she felt the need to repeat them now. “Ser Jaime has gone west to call his men to arms. To bring them here, to the northern cause. Only-”

“He hopes the North will not see it as an act of war.” Sansa’s fingers played with the stem of her goblet. “I know. Tell me truly, do you believe the Lannisters have ever cared about anyone but themselves?”

Brienne’s gaze dropped to the floor. “No.”

“And can you tell me the last time they brought anything but deceit and death upon the North since the day they chopped my father’s head off?”

“No.”

“So why should I allow them to march their entire army to our gates?”

“Ser Jaime is not Joffrey,” Brienne insisted. “He kept his word and convinced Cersei to let us into the capital unharmed. He sent me to find you and keep you safe, to make good on the vow he swore your lady mother. His intentions are as he says.”

“What of his intentions when he thrust his sword through his king’s back? The king he also swore to protect?”

Shivers raced across Brienne’s skin. She could not answer. The truth was there, sitting on her tongue, but would accomplish nothing. She stood mute and let quiet envelop the room.

Sansa studied her for a long while. Her pupils were large black pools in the dim light. Finally she said, “You love him.”

Brienne’s pulse stopped. She remembered her conversation with the queen at the royal wedding, feeling blindsided and confused. She had said nothing then too. _My mouth was full of cotton._

She took a deep breath and said, “Yes.”

There was another stretch of silence. Lady Sansa watched her from across the table, rigid and unmoving. The oil lamp flickered. Then something shifted in her features, and she sighed.

“I trust you, Brienne,” she said at last. “You saved my life, and brought my sister home to me. Those deeds are not easily forgotten.” Sansa’s eyes softened. “And I know you would never do anything to deliberately bring me harm. If you believe he means what he says, I will take your word for it. I will send riders to the Neck with instructions to let the Lannisters pass. And when they arrive, I will treat with him.”

Brienne’s entire body sagged with relief. Or perhaps it was exhaustion. She nodded her thanks and went, unable to form any proper words of gratitude. When she reached her bedchamber, it was all she could do to remove her armor. No sooner had the last piece fallen to the floor than she fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

She woke to a cold white morning dancing with snow. Spears of ice hung from the roof of the Great Hall, as large and sharp as dragon teeth. Within, groups of knights huddled at the trestle tables like flocks of snow geese, their cloaks coated in white. She found Podrick at the end of a bench, alone, warming his hands by the hearth. To break their fast the servants brought out barley bread and bowls of warm porridge, crisp bacon and tart jellies and mulled cider. Brienne ate ravenously. The meals nearing the end of their travels had consisted almost entirely of leathery dried meat and oatcakes, whatever was left over after so long on the road, and even that had become scarce the last few days.

She was scraping her bowl clean when a man plopped down heavily beside her. He was very large, easily one of the fattest men she had ever encountered, and the weight of him caused the wooden bench to creak in protest. Her spoon fell from her hand and clattered to the ground as the seat shifted under her.

The man whipped around at the sound, thick cheeks quickly turning scarlet. “Oh! My apologies, s-” Somehow his face managed to redden further when he realized his mistake. “My lady.”

He bent hurriedly under the table to retrieve her fallen utensil, but his large middle made it nigh impossible, and Brienne leaned down to grab it instead.

"It’s quite alright,” she said as they both straightened. The man was young, hardly a man at all, although his dark beard seemed to lend him a few years. He had kind hazel eyes, and a heavy chain lay against his chest. “You’re a maester.”

He gave her a humble smile. “Not the most decorated, I must admit. I only stayed at the Citadel long enough to forge a few links.” It was true. Just three different metals made up the chain he wore: silver, black iron, and copper. The rest was a thin length of rope that kept it circled round his neck. “I figured Jon - _King_ Jon - would want me to return as soon as possible.”

“His Grace sent you to the Citadel?”

“He and I used to be brothers. Sworn Brothers, that is. Back at the Wall. I asked him for leave to Oldtown after Maester Aemon died so I could study, and help with… everything.” All at once the man’s eyebrows shot up. “I haven’t properly introduced myself. I’m Samwell Tarly. This is Gilly, and that’s baby Sam.”

Brienne hadn’t noticed the woman sitting behind him, nor the toddler on her lap. Gilly was slight of build, with a pale face and mousy brown hair. The boy had similar features. His chubby fingers were wrapped around a strip of bacon.

“Brienne of Tarth,” she replied. Baby Sam gave a gurgle of delight and clapped his hands together.

“You’re the Evenstar’s daughter,” said Samwell. “The warrior maid.”

_Maid no longer,_ Brienne thought abruptly. She cleared her throat to distract from the blush creeping up her neck. “I’ve sworn my sword to the Lady Sansa.”

“Ah.” Just then baby Sam reached up and tugged on Samwell’s ear. The man gave a surprised shout. Seemingly satisfied, the toddler began to laugh, a high sweet giggle that rang across the hall. The sound was as beautiful a song as Brienne had ever heard, and when Samwell began to tickle him, filling the air with more of it, the entire hall stopped to listen.

She watched them for a time, Samwell and baby Sam and Gilly, entranced by their momentary gaiety. They seemed to be in their own world, removed from the harshness of reality if only for a moment. A stab of envy struck her then, fast and sharp, and she resolved to take her leave before it became too much.

Brienne had never wanted a family. Her father had made three matches for her, and each she had dreaded. The thought of marrying, of bearing children and settling down to a life of dutiful mundaness, had been abhorrent to her. It still was, to an extent. But at times she found herself yearning for something, something she could not name, a sort of closeness that ran only amongst kin. She had heard it in Lady Catelyn’s voice as she spoke about Bran and Rickon and the rest of her children. A bond as fierce and unyielding as Valyrian steel.

The chill outside cut through her cloak and loose woolen shirt, seeping deep into her bones, but still the strange sadness would not relent. She walked past the sept and through a gate to the main courtyard beyond. She was of a mind to return to the Guest House, or perhaps pick up a sword from the armory, but her feet carried her past both. Soon she was crossing the threshold into the godswood.

Growing up on an island off the southern coast of the continent, Brienne had only ever worshipped the Seven. Evenfall Hall had housed a grandiose sept, and it was there that she had knelt with her septa and prayed to the seven faces of the deity. There had been no godswood, only sprawling gardens filled with fragrant flowers and rustling aspens and burbling creeks. She could still feel the sunlight that had streamed through the canopy above, warm golden coins kissing her skin.

These woods were a darker sort. The trees here were ash and chestnut and ironwood, twisting gnarled oaks and soldier pines, all black shadows in a sea of white. Their trunks pressed close together, so close they seemed to drink all sound. Even her footfalls were silent. Snow had landed here too, but the hot springs that flowed beneath had warmed the ground, letting patches of soft humus poke through.

Brienne walked slowly over the forest floor, breathing in the earthy scent of the place, a smell as primal and ancient as the North itself. This was the home of the old gods. The children of the forest hadn’t been seen for hundreds of years, yet the northerners still kept their faith, a religion whose gods dwelled in stone and earth and tree. It seemed to Brienne that their eyes were on her as she weaved through the tangled roots and rocks underfoot.

Eventually she came upon the heart tree, a great white weirwood that lived at the center of the grove. Its sap was red as blood, flowing like tears from the eyes of the face carved into its thick bark. Crimson leaves swirled through the air to float on the pool of water at its base.

This was where Sansa had been married, Brienne knew. In her own home, under the gaze of her own gods, she had been forced to wed the son of the man who had killed her brother. And after… Brienne did not like to think of after, of what Ramsay had done to her over and over for months on end. Anger flared in her chest. Littlefinger had pulled those strings. No doubt he had known what kind of a monster Ramsay was, yet he had persuaded Sansa into his bed nonetheless, all as some calculated move on his _cyvasse_ board.

Brienne would have to keep her guard up regarding Petyr Baelish. With Sansa now sitting as Lady of Winterfell, she was a sweet plum indeed. Doubtless the man was already trying to drive a wedge between her and Jon. Bran had declared himself uninterested in taking his place as lord of Winterfell upon his return, and if Littlefinger convinced Sansa to stake her claim as the trueborn daughter of Eddard Stark and the rightful heir to her family’s stronghold, a marriage proposal would not be far behind. Such an arrangement would give him control of both the North and the Vale, making him one of the most powerful players in the Seven Kingdoms.

Brienne inhaled and tried to shake the thoughts from her mind, sucking in a lungful of crisp air. So far Sansa had proven herself wary of Littlefinger’s silver tongue, and Brienne knew she loved her half-brother deeply. She would not fall for his tricks again.

The heart tree loomed above as Brienne moved closer, its broad pale branches climbing high into the sky. Its face was twisted and solemn, with a hard thin line for a mouth and weeping eyes. Gooseflesh prickled her skin. The austerity of it reminded her of the Stranger.

It was only when she neared the pool that she noticed the figure at the weirwood’s base. The person sat kneeled between its roots, facing the trunk. Brienne drew up short, but it was too late. A twig snapped under her boot, and a moment later the girl spun around, skinny blade extended.

“You’re not a northerner,” said Arya. Her tone was barbed. “These aren’t your gods.”

“No,” admitted Brienne.

“Then why are you here?”

“I… I don’t know.”

Brienne had been in the godswood once before, the morning after her conversation with Jaime in the kennels. She had wanted to escape the stifling confines of the castle, but the courtyard had been too full of people, and the godswood had seemed her only chance to think in peace. She had wandered tentatively past the open gates and through the trees. It had proven a good place to calm her mind, albeit a dreary one. She hadn’t made it as far as the heart tree that time. The deeper into the wood she had traveled, the more she had felt the watchful eyes of the gods, judging her, deeming her a trespasser. So she had turned back the way she had come. But afterward, when she had confessed her crime to Lady Sansa, she had been assured that visitors were welcome.

Arya did not seem to agree. Her sword was held at length, its silvery reflection shimmering across the surface of the water. Brienne knew the girl was not fond of her. They had barely spoken since arriving at Winterfell together so many months ago, and whatever interaction they did manage to have was curt at best.

“I oft pray with my sword as well,” said Brienne. She kept the words light, attempting to invite some form of amiable exchange. _Sansa was slow to trust me, too_ , she reminded herself.

“I wasn’t praying,” snapped Arya. Her features were drawn into a scowl, and her fingers were tight around the hilt of her rapier.

“My septa used to say, ‘A wise woman uses the word of god as her sword’,” Brienne recalled. The memory was a bitter one. Septa Roelle had been a hateful woman, always chiding Brienne for her mulish attitude and her decision to wield a sword. She had never ceased to remind her that swordplay was a man’s duty, and a woman’s was in the birthing bed.

Arya scoffed. “That’s stupid. Words can’t poke a man full of holes.”

Brienne’s lips lifted into a smile. “I told Septa Roelle much the same.”

A moment of understanding seemed to pass between them then, reaching across the pond. Brienne was reminded of their first meeting, back when she had found the girl with the Hound. Arya had grinned when she’d told her of her father teaching her how to fight. Now the girl’s arm lowered, and the point of her sword sank into the spongy ring of moss along the edge of the water.

“You fight well,” conceded Arya.

“As do you,” Brienne returned. “I rely mostly on strength. You, though…” The girl was slim, like her sword. Both were better suited to speed and quick thrusting attacks, and she used the style effectively. “Who taught you?”

“My father hired a Braavosi fencing master,” said Arya. Her face grew pensive. “Syrio Forel. He died.”

Brienne felt a pang of pity. The Stark children had lost nigh everyone they had ever cared about. Their father had been beheaded on the steps of the Great Sept, their mother and brother slaughtered behind the walls of the Twins - even their great uncle had been killed during the fall of Riverrun. Suddenly Brienne thought of Jeyne Heddle and her sister, orphaned and running an inn all their own. _When the lords play their games, children highborn and low are forced to grow well before their time, or else perish like their kin._

It was no great wonder why Arya mistrusted her. The Lannisters had arranged the murder of half her family, and Brienne had shown up with their gold about her hip, promising to protect her. She was surprised the girl hadn’t tried to kill her a second time.

“Perhaps we could duel in practice some day,” Brienne said. She gave a nod of farewell. “My apologies for disturbing you.”

Brienne turned to leave, pulling the fabric of her cloak tight around her to ward off the chill. She did not get far. A few steps in, a voice came from behind.

“Today’s some day.” Brienne turned around. Arya was looking at her warily still, but the glower had left her face, and there was a lightness to her tone that had been absent before. “I don’t want to use wooden swords, though.”

They found the courtyard busy, bustling with sparring soldiers and servants going about their tasks. Brienne picked a decent bastard sword from the armory, thinner and longer than Oathkeeper, the better to match Arya’s technique. The men around them watched as they began their fight, each circling around the other, blades drawn across their chests. Arya struck first, sending a stab to Brienne’s side. She blocked it easily, meeting the rapier with a swift upward cut. They danced across the muddied snow, steel scraping as they parried blow after blow, never slowing.

By the time they were both panting, a crowd had gathered around them, a loose circle of scullions and men-at-arms. Some were shouting out bets on who was most like to win the fight. Brienne tried her best to ignore them, but one cut through her focus like a knife, causing her heart to jump into her throat.

“Twenty coppers on the Kingslayer’s whore!”

Brienne stopped in her tracks. Arya’s blade whizzed through the air and caught her along the forearm, but she hardly noticed. As she turned to the man who had called out the words, her body began to blaze, the heat coursing through her in waves. The rest of the onlookers sensed the shift in the air and fell silent. Out of the corner of her eye, Brienne saw Arya lower her sword.

“Why would you call me that?” Brienne asked the man. He was a knight of the Vale, dressed in sky blue and white, young and lithe and blonde. He couldn’t have seen more than twenty name days, and there was a twist to his mouth that betrayed the easy arrogance of youth. She recognized him as one of the retainers that had accompanied King Jon to the capital.

“Everyone knows Lannister paid a visit to your tent the first night back,” said the knight. “Why else but to rip off your armor and fuck you like his sister?”

A few spectators laughed at that. More looked uneasy. Brienne saw two or three soldiers’ hands fly to their sword hilts; no doubt they expected a fight to break out, and intended to come to their fellow’s aid.

“What, cat got your tongue?” goaded the man. “Lion, more like. Bet he’s already got a bastard in you.”

“Enough, Eon,” said a burly redheaded knight, placing his hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Leave her be.”

The knight called Eon wrenched from his grasp. “No, no, I want to hear what she has to say for herself. Tell it true, wench, what would the Evenstar do if you crawled back to Tarth with a lion cub in your belly?”

All eyes turned to her. Brienne could feel their stares boring through her clothes, singing past her skin, tearing into her soul. Her entire being hummed with anxiety. There was a part of her that screamed to run, to go to her room and bar the door and never leave, but she knew it would do her no good. She had ignored them long enough, had contented herself with letting them whisper behind her back. She would have to find the courage to speak.

And somewhere, deep within, she did. She remembered herself, a girl of twelve, waiting in her father’s hall for the boy she was to marry. She had been shaking with nerves, as panicky as one awaiting an executioner’s greatsword. Then the boy had arrived. He had taken one look at her and thrown his rose at her feet, disgusted. Her worst fears had been realized, and as he walked away her face had burned with the strain of holding back tears. The humiliation had consumed her.

She would not allow herself to be humiliated anymore.

“I am no man’s whore,” Brienne growled, pointing her blade at Ser Eon’s chest. Adrenaline surged through her veins. “I am a sworn sword and advisor to the Lady Sansa, the Lady of Winterfell and your _liege_ so long as you fight under the direwolf. I have fought and won against men more seasoned than you. You would do well to remember that. And guard your tongue, lest you want to lose it, ser _._ ”

The silence that followed her statement was complete. A mule brayed from the stables across the yard, and somewhere a wagon creaked. No one dared speak. Then Ser Eon blew out through his nose, derisive, moving forward so the tip of her sword dug into the falcon on his surcoat.

“There’s a stink of lion about you, woman,” he sneered. “You still have yet to deny that the Kingslayer took you like a bitch-”

“Ian, is it?” cut in a voice. Brienne’s insides curdled at the sound. The group of men parted, and Lord Petyr Baelish strode into the circle.

“Eon, my lord,” said Ser Eon, tone suddenly bereft of its edge.

“Ah, Eon.” The Lord Protector of the Vale gave a cutting smile. “My apologies. It’s terrible of me, I know, but most of your names escape me. There are just so many of you… Ser Albar, Ser Mychel, Ser Donnel…  How could one possibly keep track?”

The insinuation in Littlefinger’s words did not go unnoticed. _You’re dispensable_ , it said _._ Ser Eon’s face went pale as milk.

“You’d be smart to heed Lady Brienne’s warning,” Littlefinger continued, flicking his gaze in her direction. A shiver climbed up her spine. “The Lady Sansa would not take kindly to your insulting one of her dearest friends. And I’ve no doubt Lady Brienne could easily take your head from your shoulders if she so desired.”

“Y-yes, my lord,” stammered Ser Eon. “Of course, my lord.”

“Good. Now leave us, all of you.” The bystanders scrambled back to their duties like scolded children. Littlefinger stroked the point of his beard for a moment, watching them. Then he turned his pale grey-green eyes to Brienne. “I must apologize on behalf of my men, my lady. One taste of victory and they think themselves Barriston the Bold. They grow restless behind these walls, hungry for another battle.”

“For a certainty,” Brienne replied. She did not try to thaw the ice in her tone. “But I needed no saving, my lord.”

“Of course not. I hope I gave no offence,” said Littlefinger, in a way that sounded almost genuinely repentant. Almost. “I do not question you can manage yourself.”

“So why did you help me?”

Lord Petyr’s mouth quirked. “You helped Lady Sansa. I figured it was the least I could do in return.”

“Yes, I helped her,” Brienne snarled, “to escape from the people _you sent her to._ ”

Something flashed across his face, dark and hostile, but in an instant it was gone, hidden behind his expertly crafted mask. “I will regret that mistake until my dying breath,” he said, the picture of remorse.

“I don’t believe you.” Brienne met his stare. “I’d be a fool to trust anything that comes out of your mouth.”

Littlefinger grinned. “I see you’re as able of mind as you are with a sword. Lady Sansa has good taste in companions.” He glanced to the Great Keep and adopted a sorry expression. “I’m afraid I must cut this conversation short. I’ve been summoned by our lady.”

_Our lady._ Brienne clenched her fist to keep from punching her sword through the man’s bowels. He gave her a nod of farewell, then bowed to Arya. The girl regarded him coolly, fingers twitching along the hilt of her sword. Both of their gazes followed his back as he slithered away across the yard.

_I feel like I need a bath_ , Brienne thought, shuddering. But she must have said it aloud, for she heard Arya snort beside her. They locked eyes, and a moment later the girl broke into a fit of laughter. Brienne found herself following suit. As they struggled to regain their breath, she realized she could not remember the last time she had laughed.

Arya accompanied her to the armory to drop off her borrowed blade. On their way, Brienne inclined her head in the girl’s direction. “Needle, is it?” Arya nodded. Her thumb ran over the pommel, a habit Brienne had noticed on more than one occasion. “Who gave it to you?”

“How do you know I didn’t steal it off some corpse?”

Brienne gestured to her hand. “You treat it too fondly.”

Arya flushed. “Jon,” she admitted. The yearning was clear in her voice.

“The king will return soon,” Brienne assured her. She thought of Oathkeeper and Jaime, and hoped the same was true for him.

That night sleep did not come easy. She lay awake for hours, tossing about in her bed, unable to still her mind. _Kingslayer’s whore!_ shouted Ser Eon through the darkness, over and over, and when she finally fell unconscious he shouted it in her dreams. But in sleep Ser Eon was a bear, not a knight, huge and ferocious and snarling, looming above like a mountain. The pit around them was small, smaller than the one at Harrenhal had been, and it seemed as if the walls were shrinking ever closer. Soon her back met stone, and she was trapped. _Freak!_ yelled the spectators in the benches. _Kingslayer’s whore!_ roared Ser Eon, fangs sharp and glistening. Panic seized her heart. She looked around frantically for Oathkeeper, but her hands were empty, and so was her scabbard. _My sword_ , she thought. _I cannot fight without my magic sword._ Ser Eon raked the ground with his claws, sending sand and gravel into the air. Brienne closed her eyes and awaited the strike that would be her end.

But the end did not come. Instead she felt a pressure on her hand, warm and steady, and when she opened her eyes Ser Jaime was beside her, fingers interlaced with hers. “Jaime? What are you doing here?”

He said nothing, but there was a sword at his waist, and he took his hand from hers to unsheath it. “I need a sword, too,” Brienne said, and suddenly there it was, lying at her feet. She bent to retrieve it. The pommel was the familiar lion’s head, but the ripples in the blade glowed in a way she had never seen before.

All at once Ser Eon let out a fearsome bellow. She and Jaime exchanged a glance, and together they attacked the beast, circling around it, cutting and slashing and stabbing as it whirled about. Blood stained the sand and ran down the length of their blades. Once, when the bear swiped a paw in Brienne’s direction, she was too slow on the retreat, earning her three deep red slashes across her middle. The pain was so blinding she fell to her knees. She watched in horror as the bear came lumbering after her, but it had begun to stagger in the fight, its gait growing labored and stumbling as the life bled out of it. Jaime made quick work of thrusting his sword through the animal’s heart. As it lay dying, he ran to her, taking her in his arms. He pressed his hand to her wound, attempting to stanch the flow of blood, but the effort was futile. She could feel herself slipping away, succumbing to the darkness. The last thing she remembered was the soft pressure of his lips against her own.

Brienne woke with a start, sweating. Her breath was ragged, her pulse rapid. Still half-asleep, she moved a hand to her belly, to the place where the beast had ripped her open. There was no claw mark, no blood. _It was just a dream_ , she thought, sinking back into the bed with relief. Ser Eon was no bear, only a man, and his words could not kill her.

Still, the events of the dream lingered long after she regained consciousness. She could taste the blood in her mouth, metallic and warm, bubbling to her lips. Her thoughts wandered to another nightmare, another death her mind had used to torture her. _Jaime._ His blood had flowed down the marble steps of the Great Sept like spilled wine. The memory twisted her stomach. How long until such visions came true? The army of the dead would be upon the North soon enough, and then only the gods knew who would survive. There was no guarantee that either of them would make it out alive.

The more she pondered the notion, however, the more she supposed there was a certain comfort in it. With death so close and time so short, Ser Eon’s taunts seemed a small price to pay for the feel of Jaime’s arms around her, his heartbeat thudding in tandem with hers, so alive and warm and real. The end of the world was on the horizon, and Brienne did not want to waste whatever time was left worrying about the thoughts of others. She had done that too much already. The people would take what they wanted, no matter what. She resolved to live her life in spite of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the lack of updates! My life has been super crazy this last month and I haven't been able to write as much as I'd like. I hope it was worth the wait! <3


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